


Two Days Before Tomorrow

by ohdyoskai



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 09:36:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12105864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohdyoskai/pseuds/ohdyoskai
Summary: Kyungsoo doesn’t have memories of paper planes, shades of blue, nor of singing songs. But when Jongin enters his life in golden hues, he begins to feel that he does. Between the time it takes to walk home and recall the past he’s never had, Kyungsoo falls in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queuebey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queuebey/gifts).



> Thank you so much to the Kaisoommer mods for being SO kind with all the deadline extensions I requested :( Thank you to my beta N for encouraging me when I felt like giving up. The latter half of this fic wouldn’t have been written on time if it weren’t for you.  
> To my recipient: Maybe you were expecting something else with the prompts with you submitted, so I’m sorry it turned out like this orz I hope you enjoy reading it :)

Do Kyungsoo steps into Daelim Museum at precisely two in the afternoon. It had rained heavy and incessant that morning. The trail of water leading into the pristine white halls bothers him. Everyone’s talking about a Kim Jongin. His name is on people’s mouths, flowing out excitedly. It’s there too, by the entrance, brandished in bold, white letters on a navy background. 

Kyungsoo frowns when he sidesteps to let a couple of students pass. His temple is still throbbing when he reaches up to massage it, feeling zings of mustard brown. It doesn't seem like it's going away soon. It's refusing to leave despite two advils and his mom’s homemade ginseng remedy.

Strange. He doesn’t recall doing anything out of the ordinary.

“I want you out by noon,” Jongdae, his editor had said, eager and enthusiastic over the phone at eight-thirty. Kyungsoo remembers rolling over his sheets, cupping his forehead with a groan.

“Make sure to focus on his comeback. Everyone’s curious why he’s out with a portrait again—and of _that guy_ , even.”

He reaches out to shut his curtains, grimacing at the surge of colors, “Who are we talking about?” 

“ _Kim Jongin_ ,” Jongdae says. The name light on his lips, dancing in pink. “He’s famous for his portraits, but he only paints one guy… No one knows who he is, or what he was to Painter Kim because he’s never been identified.”

Outside, it's building up to a shower.

Lazy amber yellows leave streaks on the glass visible through the thin, embroidered cloth.

Kyungsoo stares. He feels like he’s forgotten something.

“He stopped for a while, but now he’s back. It’s a new portrait—the first one in _ages_.”

Carefully, Kyungsoo pulls out a notepad from his satchel.

It’s squashed and bent around the edges from overuse, but there are still a couple of pages. He thumbs it open from where he’s wrote last.

The herd of people passing through, he presumes, are all here for the famed portrait.

He lets himself be led to the farthest end of the vast museum, swerving through hallways and corridors, up a staircase and into an open space.

From last step, he can make out a small crowd gathered around a corner.

That must be it.

Kyungsoo rushes an apology when he bumps into a taller man, keeping his head low when he walks past. It takes some time walking around before he finds a good spot. The lights surrounding tinge the painting in a shade of light indigo, like the ordinary lull of daybreak.

Dust dancing, it looks more ethereal. Unreal even, when Kyungsoo widens his eyes to see. 

It’s a portrait of a man surrounded by hydrangeas—tiny, delicate flowers. Beautiful and realistic. They’re in his hair, contrasting like drops of rain on the night sky. His pupils are moist and sparkling, his lips—full and cherry red.

Kyungsoo understands why Jongin is so celebrated. The portrait is stunning.

It takes him a few, long seconds to realize. The spiral spine of his notebook digs into his fingers. Kyungsoo raises a hand to touch his face.

It’s like he’s looking into a mirror.

The man in the painting looks a lot like _him_. 

“Hyung?” a voice calls out, and Kyungsoo jolts in surprise.

He halts when he steps on something. Darting his eyes downward, Kyungsoo notices a soggy paper plane by his feet. It’s torn from where his sole has moved, water pooling around it slightly.

“Kyungsoo hyung?” a deep voice asks again, and this time Kyungsoo lifts his head to face him.

It's the tall man he bumped into earlier, breathing in careful, diluted cornsilk, gaping.

Time comes to a standstill when he approaches. There's an undeniable longing, unmistakable when it pumps gold through his body.

Kyungsoo feels his eyes prickle when the man leans closer. A touch sad, almost forlorn. He hitches his breath when he moves his mouth to speak.

“It’s you..” he whispers.

Kyungsoo’s taken aback, but the colors pierce through. Desperate and pleading. 

The man reaches out, and Kyungsoo’s surprised when he doesn’t budge. Fingers press into his skin. Burning scarlet, bringing a hundred other colors with it. 

He would pull away, but he’s not scared. It’s like he knows him.

The man’s eyes widen impossibly more.

“It’s you.. I can’t believe it’s _you_..”

 

 

   

Apologies are heard when they’re seated elsewhere. The man introduces himself after.

“I’m Jongin.”

He's warm in hues of caramel and hot chocolate. Kyungsoo’s reminded of autumn. Crisp leaves and orange streets.

“I painted that over there.” Jongin gestures, swaying his head to the painting. “I was hoping it would make you come back.”

‘ _Come back?_ ’

“Honestly, I wasn’t expecting anything.”

Jongin glances over quickly, like he’s afraid Kyungsoo would disappear. When Kyungsoo blinks at him, he shakes his head with restrained laughter.

He keeps a smile loose on his lips when he traces every inch of Kyungsoo’s face. He sighs when his eyes grow moist, the crease between his brows deepening. “I can't believe you're here... ”

He leans forward and presses his elbows to his knees. Kyungsoo looks at him in confusion, tasting Oxford blue and miniscule canary yellows at the tip of his teeth.

“I can’t believe it, hyung.” Jongin breathes, pushing himself up. He strides forward and stops a few meters away, forming a frame around Kyungsoo’s face with L-shaped fingers.

“Do Kyungsoo, the art critic. The man who sees colors, experiences colors. You taste, feel and even smell them.”

He drops his hands but keeps his stance firm and sure.

“You started working for an art magazine right after high school. You prefer walking to work because it saves on gas and keeps you healthy. You like your coffee black, surroundings quiet, and friends few.”

There’s a hopeless look in Jongin’s eyes when he continues, “You despise waking up with your curtains drawn back because the sunlight hurts your eyes—makes the colors pop.” He snaps his hands open and closed, like the buzz of a flickering firefly.

Kyungsoo frowns. He’s never told anyone any of those things.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But I don’t..”

“I know.” Jongin says, apologetic when he cuts him off. He walks back and lowers himself on the seat, eager with a sparkle in his eyes. “But hear me out.”

He's focused on him now. But Kyungsoo fathoms it’s deeper. Further. Beyond this seat, or the limitations that cage them to this juncture. 

“The first time we met—this is what you told me.”

There’s despair beneath the initial curiosity. The straight face Jongin puts on doesn’t suit him. Kyungsoo holds his breath when he leans close.

“Two days before tomorrow,” he starts. “That’s the title of my painting.”

His stare is inquisitive but hesitant—desperate like he's scrambling to hold onto the last grains of sand spilling from his grasp.

“Two days before tomorrow,” he repeats. “That’s when I started loving you.”

  

 

 

It doesn't make sense.

The colors never lie, but the situation is absurd.

It rained again that evening, and Jongin was quick to hand him his card. He politely offered his own. Kyungsoo watched him tuck it into his wallet—leather with tiny specks of paint.

“Will I see you again?” Jongin asked, eyes focused on the taxi approaching them.

Kyungsoo watches how the headlights seem to make him even more welcoming. “We just met, sir,” he answers. Maybe with a little too much bite. Jongin laughs, and it echoes in bright pink.

“I told you, hyung.” Jongin keeps an eye shut when he wipes at the corner of his eyes. He holds the door open for Kyungsoo when he steps in. “We've met before. And we're going to meet each other a lot more often now. Hope you don't dislike me too much.”

Kyungsoo frowned about that the whole way home. _What does that even mean?_

The sapphire business card is light between his pointer and thumb. Jongin’s personal details are engraved in shiny yellow gold.

Kyungsoo pins it on the refrigerator with his ‘I 愛 Beijing’ magnet from Jongdae last spring. The striking blue contrasts with the overdue electricity bills and letters from home, like a puddle on limestone.

From behind, the pot of ramen sounds off. He doesn’t bother transferring it to a bowl and starts eating from the pot directly.

A quick Google search of Jongin’s name racks up more than a thousand entries. He taps on the first link absentmindedly, blowing on the piping noodles while waiting.

Jongin, Kyungsoo learns, is a big deal with the younger art scene. His works always depict some kind of lost love—enchanting but fleeting. Blue is always present, instrument in heightening the loneliness, in conveying the longing. 

Scrolling down, Kyungsoo slurps his noodles when he taps on the next page, taking him to a list of Jongin’s past works displayed through the pixelated screen.

There’s one of a deserted convenience store. A shopping basket lays abandoned by the beverage display. The milk cartons inside are a standard blue, strong against the dull tiles. Another is a watercolor painting described as one of Jongin’s more popular works— _Blankets_.

In a room of powder blue, it’s darker inside than it is out.

Two pairs of legs are tangled in clean, white sheets. The light from the painted sky casts shadows that make the limbs look like valleys, hills of snow.

Kyungsoo clutches his phone closer, zooming in on the details. His eyes widen when he sees—right there, unmistakable on the leftmost thigh, a faint constellation of birthmarks. They're awfully similar, if not exactly like his.

Further down the webpage are an assortment of portraits grouped into one category: The Man. They all feature a short-haired, wonder-eyed, mysterious youth. Again familiar, again striking and definitely..

“ _It’s me_ ,” Kyungsoo whispers. 

The words sink inside his freezing apartment, breaking through the floorboards and further down the piping. Sweat forms on his nose in tiny beads, creeping like ants above his skin.

Anyone could tell right away. From the thick eyebrows to the slump of his shoulders. There are at least a dozen portraits here, all of him that he doesn’t remember ever posing for.

He’s leaning on window sills, sitting on benches, and drinking from wine glasses. There’s one of him looking at Jongin reflected on the mirror in front of him.

Kyungsoo notices how clear his features are, how defined each eyelash looks, how prominent the freckle on his upper lip is, compared to Jongin in the background who is just a blob of colors.

 _Kim Jongin’s muse_ , the article says, _is one who he refuses to identify_. It proceeds to directly quote him, and Kyungsoo can almost hear his deep voice in his head, secretive but wistful. ‘ _He’s my everything. I adore him, and there’s no one else_.’

But Jongin has stopped painting the man—Kyungsoo, that following year. Kim Jongin disappeared until he returned painting flowers. Only flowers. No more people, no more muse, no more Kyungsoo.

It’s a mystery to everyone, the article concludes. Though there have been many questions, Jongin has never bothered to answer.

“What happened?” Kyungsoo gasps, feeling like a bystander watching a tragedy.

The entire story still isn’t clear. But the writer inside him wants to know, wants to hear the ending. He's suddenly involved and stuck in the middle. He's suddenly a part of this.. part of Jongin’s life that always had him in it.

 

 

 

Jongdae is loud and demanding when he walks across the office. A rolled up glossy poster is in his fist. Someone must have screwed up again because Kyungsoo’s senses are going into overdrive.

People are filing in and out of his cubicle in rapid successions of cardinal reds and velvet moss. His voice booms when he curses, spurting angry crescendos of neon aquamarines that stick to the ceiling.

Kyungsoo tries to focus. He’s catching a deadline and he’s not even sure if his fingers can make it. It’s a race against time when Sehun from the cubicle beside him slides in, heaving his feet up on Kyungsoo’s pile of exhibit pamphlets unceremoniously.

“Hey, hyung. What’re you doing?”

Kyungsoo narrows his eyes at the screen in front of him, bent on ignoring the younger man. He hisses when his waist gets jabbed.

Sehun snickers when he dodges a blind punch. He stretches his long legs in retaliation, purposely bumping against the wall in a noisy electric lime. With an inward groan, Kyungsoo notes that it’s still Thursday. 

“Jongdae’s losing his wig over the new intern,” Sehun hums, stretching on Kyungsoo’s cluttered desk. He knocks over some pens and an empty plastic cup. He pokes Kyungsoo again and cackles when he yelps.

“You’re boring today. You never talk to me anymore.”

“That’s because you never shut up. Stop bothering me. I have a deadline to make.” Kyungsoo deadpans, hitting backspace. “If you don’t leave me alone, pretty soon I’m going to be the one Jongdae’s going to lose his wig over.”

Sehun lets out a purple gasp. “Oh my god, hyung. I can’t believe you just said ‘wig’!” 

A distinct ‘ping!’ sounds off along with an email notification. Kyungsoo shoves Sehun out of his space when he gets too close. He doesn’t look twice before clicking on it, a window popping up after.

‘ _From Kim Jongin_ ’ it reads.

Sehun behind him says the subject out loud, and the words ring tiny, hopeful azures.

 _Let me paint you_.

 

  

 

“Let me get this right,” Kyungsoo starts, keeping his voice firm over the phone.

He balances the thin silver gadget on one shoulder. At the same time, he scrambles to attach the last two photos for his article. “You want me to model for you?”

“Yep,” Jongin’s croaks. The static buzzes, like dead noise between radio stations. “I was thinking of starting portraits again and you were the first person to come into mind.”

Kyungsoo huffs, double-checking his work one last time. “Why are you doing this?" 

“There's no reason.. Honestly, I just want to see you.” Jongin pauses, musing. “Also, I was really thinking of starting portraits again, just so you know I'm not lying.”

“Look,” Kyungsoo says. He leans back in his chair when he finally presses send. “I don't even know you. For all I know, you could be a stalker who’s been trailing me all this time.”

“So, you've seen my works?” Jongin asks, maybe a little too enthusiastic. Kyungsoo can hear emerald fresh on his teeth. 

“Yes, and I'm not amused.” 

“Did you like them? I only paint things I like..” He drifts off, considering if he should finish the sentence. “...like you. Only you, really.”

“I’m sorry.” Kyungsoo interrupts. He straightens his back and switches his phone to his left hand. “But why should I even model for you? Like I said, I don’t know you.” 

“We’ve met before. I’ve been telling you that.” Jongin insists. The sincerity in his voice rings nothing but pure, solid feldspar. It makes the goosebumps stand up on Kyungsoo’s arms. He’s not lying. The colors say so, too.

But Kyungsoo doesn’t want to give in. He’s skeptical because it’s impossible. It still doesn’t make sense.

“How?” he asks, because that’s the only thing he can come up with. “How have we met before?”

“You’ll remember,” Jongin says. His voice sends shivers through the electronic mull of the receiver. Kyungsoo pulls away when it tingles. “Can’t you feel it? I’m sure you do. It’s _me_ , Jongin.”

“Jongin..” Kyungsoo repeats.

He closes his eyes to think. But there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing he can remember about those half-crescent eyes, soft auburn hair, and heartfelt smile. But at the same time, there’s something blooming.

The colors seem to swirl, spinning together like water draining out of a stream. Jongin, the stranger, has never felt dangerous to him. If anything, Kyungsoo thinks he feels awfully a lot like home.

“Let me paint you,” Jongin sighs, voice in resigned waves of brown. “I’ll show you, hyung. I’ll show that you do know me. Let me introduce you to the Kyungsoo I know.” He pauses, taking in a deep breath.

“And to the Jongin that you’ve always known.”

The office is noisy and bustling with activity. But right here, Kyungsoo finds himself surrounded in the silence of Jongin’s steady breathing and his own thundering heartbeat.

It’s ridiculous, he knows. The colors are never wrong, but that doesn’t mean he always has to listen.

But there are always ‘what if’s and other unanswered questions that tug at his consciousness. Why does Jongin have so many portraits of him? Who is he, really? How could he be so sure...

He’s on top of a cliff, staring into a whirlpool of questions on the deepest edge of the sea. He doesn’t know for sure what’ll happen if he dives down, or if he’s going to resurface at all.

But Kyungsoo leaps anyway. 

“Okay,” he answers, feeling the word foreign on his tongue. “I’ll let you paint me.”

 

 

 

The sidewalk is still damp from the light drizzle. 

Kyungsoo shakes his umbrella to dry it off when he makes his way up to Jongin's studio. From outside, the building looks like something out of a movie—red bricks, and vines slithering up to the roof.

Kyungsoo double checks the address on his phone when he stands in front of a plain door. The rusting, old digits adorning it seem to confirm that he’s at the right place.

He presses the doorbell with a sudden urgency. It opens as soon as the tune rings, and he’s greeted by a refreshing grin.

“Hi, Kyungsoo!”

It’s hopelessly disarming, and Kyungsoo finds himself replying a meek, almost silent “Hello,” taken by the painter’s warmness.

Like clockwork, they almost kiss.

It happens when Jongin angles his head down suddenly. Kyungsoo responds by letting his eyes flutter shut, unbothered and brought by the flow.

They manage to get close enough for Jongin to come to his senses and retreat. He covers his mouth when he stammers “Sorry,” scratching his head and flushing red, and Kyungsoo catches the faint _I forgot we don’t do that anymore_ he whispers. Scattering yellow roses like dust bunnies. Hazy and too ambitious.

Stepping inside, Kyungsoo notices is the wind chime that tinkles, creating small songs when the curtains flutter. The sunlight streaming in dyes everything faded gold.

There are stacked canvases to the right where the light hits the peeling wallpaper. A paint-stained table is beside them, as well as an easel adjacent to the wall. Kyungsoo watches how Jongin picks up a tool from the towel is spread out on the table. He begins polishing it with a small cloth hanging from his hip.

“Thanks for agreeing to model for me,” he says, soft and uncertain. It’s odd how he’s suddenly nervous. Jongin puts the tool—a palette knife—back on the towel and rubs his hands on his thighs, the friction sounding periwinkle. “I guess we should start. Make yourself comfortable.”

He lifts a stool from behind and places it in the middle. Their eyes meets and he sneaks a childish grin. Kyungsoo sucks in his lip and tries to will away the budding wisterias in his chest from blooming.

When Jongin starts propping his easel open, he takes it as his cue to sit.

Jongin’s broad shoulders are a sight to behold. He’s mesmerizing when he starts squeezing tubes of paint onto his palette, blending and mixing, taking care to close each one carefully when he finishes. His back muscles are prominent through his shirt with each expert shift.

“Tell me how we met.” Kyungsoo says. Jongin leans back on the table, palette in hand. He’s still organizing his choice of colors—unsurprising hues of blue. “What would you like to hear?”

“Start from the beginning. You said you’d introduce me..” Kyungsoo drifts off, a little ambivalent. “Introduce me to the Jongin I’ve always known. What is he like?”

Jongin nods slowly. He sets down his palette on the table before moving to lift one of his canvases. “We didn’t meet, hyung. It was more like you found me.”

He places it on the easel in one swift movement. “You told me the same thing.” He catches Kyungsoo’s gaze from the edge of the canvas, warm and inviting, almost like the first time they met. “That we know each other, love each other. I didn’t believe you then, too.” He grabs his palette, picking up a paintbrush while he’s at it.

“It’s funny now that I think of it,” Jongin chuckles. Quivers of brown like sawdust descend from the tips of his hair. “You must think I’m a creep now. Don’t you?”

Kyungsoo scoffs, finding the branches outside interesting. “To say that I found you ‘creepy’ would be an understatement.”

Jongin laughs, and his merry voice bellows off the walls. It hits the ceiling, slips through the door cracks and tumbles through the floor. Happy colors, bright and clear, a touch sad.

“Was I that bad? I promise I’m not a murderer.” he wheezes, still shaking. Kyungsoo watches him produce a pencil from his pocket. And just like that, Jongin starts sketching, only the soothing sound of graphite in the air.

“But you told me that the colors never lie, that was how you knew right away...” he stops momentarily, looking at him again. “That’s how you knew I wasn’t lying.”

“I’m still not convinced,” Kyungsoo frowns. He stiffens slightly, and Jongin tells him to keep still. Is he a mind-reader? How does he _know_? “That was a bad explanation.”

“Just let me paint you, hyung. Then you’ll understand.”

Jongin’s pencil speeds up in long drags of brick orange. There is nothing to say, and by now the conversation has drifted off, flying to the join the rest of the memories Jongin claims is theirs.

Kyungsoo tries his best not to move, opting to just watch Jongin from what his position allows. Jongin’s bangs sway in elegant silver, contrasting with his sharp, passionate eyes. Every now and then, Kyungsoo has to look away. He feels like he might get burned if he stares too much.

They continue like that until Kyungsoo complains of a pain on his lower back. He slides off the stool to stretch, but Jongin is still painting, dabbing turquoise, almost green, sparkling.

“I’m going to take a break. Is that okay with you?”

He moves closer, then Jongin sets his brush down with a contented hum. He smiles when he cocks his head over. “Take a look,” he grins, stepping back. “It's not done yet, though.”

Kyungsoo is anxious. It’s the first time he’s ever modeled for anyone, and he's not sure how he's supposed to react. He takes a few wobbly steps forward and braces himself when he cranes his neck to see.

It's him in the distinct texture of pencil, black and white, save for his hair in a light wash of sky blue. He can almost hear the waves of the ocean on his face, clashing with his concentrated stare. The portrait is still patchy, with lines that need to be erased, but Kyungsoo feels the rounded, soft taste overpowering everything. A loving, pure shade, like a Valentines’ card waiting to be sent.

Amazing. Jongin is so talented.

There's unexplainable joy when Jongin touches his arm lightly.

It used to tingle, but now it sparks.

The desire to hold, the loneliness of parting, a million other thoughts race through his skin that he knows are Jongin's. Kyungsoo brings a hand up to press below his nose.

“You told me once, that you see beauty in things that people normally can't.” The hold tightens, snug against his sleeve. “I thought that was absurd, at first. But then you taught me how beautiful everything really is.." 

Jongin glances down and locks their eyes together, sighing when he steals glances at Kyungsoo’s parted lips. “You made me feel them, too. The colors..”

When he begins to lean down, a question quickly pops up. Kyungsoo asks it before their mouths connect.

“Why did you stop, Jongin?” The name is unfamiliar on his lips. Like clothes that aren’t his. Jongin draws back carefully, taking with him a pearly iridescent silver. “Stop what?”

“Portraits,” Kyungsoo answers.

He thinks he must have said something wrong because Jongin’s face twitches peculiar. He lowers his head and sighs. Kyungsoo feels intrusive but his curiosity outweighs everything.

Braver, the colors sting him, “You don’t do portraits anymore, you said.”

Jongin grabs the cloth hanging from his hip and plays with it in his hands. “That’s because I didn’t have anyone to paint anymore.” He wrings it once with his right hand.

“You left as soon as you came. That’s why.”

Jongin picks up his paintbrush, but stands still. There is a distant look in his eyes. Like he’s here, but not mentally present. Kyungsoo wonders if he’ll ever find out what secrets lie in them.

“All I know is, you’re here now.” Jongin says decisively. “And I'm not going to be stupid, brash, impulsive, or…”

He stops again, holding back before he says anything else. Jongin holds his breath when he battles against his thoughts.

Outside, the branches have begun to sag with the shadows of the sun. It’s almost sundown. The evening has started to spill in the empty studio, dragging long, dark shapes of the window pane in lethargic, tuscan browns. Some of them touch Kyungsoo’s socked feet and Jongin’s bare ones—right in front of him.

Jongin wraps his arms around Kyungsoo.

His touch is tentative, like he's afraid Kyungsoo is going to break. When he fits them together like a lock and key, Kyungsoo sinks in, protected, safe and content though Jongin’s trembling. He’s tawny beige, the colors of a lion’s mane. He pulls Kyungsoo closer. There's a shudder on his nape. Royal blue, deep violet.

“I’m sorry, hyung. I’m sorry for everything.”

Tighter now, Jongin buries his face in the crook of Kyungsoo’s shoulder.

“Please don’t leave me,” he pleads.

There’s another side to those words, Kyungsoo feels. It’s what he hears versus what he sees. Jongin’s holding something in, and he’s not ready to let it out just yet. 

Kyungsoo thinks maybe he can only wonder. 

Maybe he will never understand what Jongin’s past contains. Maybe there will never be a definite answer to what he feels, or what’s going to happen.

He pulls on Jongin's back, inhaling in his scent, and meeting him halfway.

“I won’t,” he replies. “I promise.” A choked out copper sob sounds in his ear.

It’s a promise for something he can’t fully comprehend. But the colors make up for it. Again, he free-falls.

Kyungsoo shushes the tears away and takes in the hues that surround them. The sunset outside morphs his portrait green, smoky and opaque inside the empty apartment.

 

 

 

“Keep your shoulders relaxed,” Jongin orders.

Today, they’re at his balcony. Half of Kyungsoo’s back is close to falling, and the branches of the neighboring tree are itchy on his left side. They’ve been at it for well about an hour now, and he’s quickly losing stamina.

It's been a month since Jongin came up with the perfect compromise. He appeared at Kyungsoo’s office lobby one afternoon, and offered the deal with a bright smile.

“I paint you, you write me. What do you think?”

It wasn't like Kyungsoo could protest anyway. He knew of Jongdae’s not-so subtle interest in the painter, and an exclusive feature would be the ticket to finally get on his good side.

“We both get something out of this. I would say yes if I were you,” Jongin had grinned. Sly and confident. Needless to say, Jongdae was beyond ecstatic when Kyungsoo told him of the agreement.

“I didn't know it would be this tiring,” he complains, letting his expression falter. Jongin clicks his tongue and gruffs in dirty ash. “Hold still.”

It's unnaturally hot and humid. The air is heavy and unmoving. Kyungsoo can feel sweat drench his face. He would reach out to wipe it off, but he’s sure Jongin would growl at him again if he ever dared to move, so he doesn't.

“How much longer?” Kyungsoo tries asking, but Jongin's too caught up, completely immersed in his work. He sighs resignedly, and decides to space out at the slight bump of Jongin's nose. “I ought to make you pay me for this. This is like.. hard labor with how bad my back is hurting.”

He earns a chuckle that shrinks in thin lines, vivid redwood that contrasts against the sizzling heat. “You should get your back checked.” Jongin wipes paint stuck at the back of his hand on his faded jeans. “And I’m the last person you should ask for money, you know that. Gimme five more minutes,” he says.

Kyungsoo adjusts his position slightly. “You said that an hour ago.”

“I’d paint faster if I could,” Jongin answers. “But I only want to paint the best version of you. That’s all you deserve.”

He points his brush at the canvas, assessing it. Kyungsoo watches how Jongin’s eyebrows furrow, how his jaw clenches when he presses his teeth down on his lips. He thinks what kind of mind Jongin might possess—how things work with that imagination of his.

They finish when the weather has turned colder, but the evening too far to arrive. Jongin places his equipment in his container meticulously. The breeze pushes his hair flush into his face, and Kyungsoo has a passing thought of reaching up to hold them flat. He loosens the first two buttons of his dress shirt, following after Jongin when he lugs his easel and canvas in.

Jongin places the half-finished work on the paint-stained table.

It’s Kyungsoo with his skin slightly damp, true to life, flushed cheeks like azaleas and a dreamy gaze—the sky above blue melting into the tea-colored branches beside him.

“Flowers and blue,” Kyungsoo states. “You seem to like them a lot.”

Jongin gives him an amused look, crossing his arms in consideration. He angles his head and nods slowly, taking in Kyungsoo’s observation. It takes a few moments for him to break into smile, surrendering. “I suppose so. That’s three of my favorite things combined.”

“But I only mentioned two—” Kyungsoo mumbles. Then it hits him. He chortles when he lifts a hand to slaps Jongin’s arm lightly, “I’m the third thing, aren’t I?”

He watches Jongin trail back to the table, placing a hand on the portrait. He’s encased in a glow of light gray lavender. A happy color. Kyungsoo likes it. 

“You’re the third, the fourth, and the fifth.” Jongin smiles, sighing. “The sixth, seventh, and eighth..”

He directs his sight outside, and they watch an airplane fly overhead, leaving a stream of white.

“I would count until my lungs give out, and you’ll always be more." 

Jongin is warm, warm, and only warmth. The hand that finds its place in Kyungsoo’s own, up to the shudders that run up his shoulders. Eventually the clouds will drift away, and their hands part between dusk and evening. 

Kyungsoo lets go of Jongin’s words when they fade into nothingness.

But the feelings remain.

 

 

 

Jongin paints Kyungsoo.

 _Lying down, smiling._ He exaggerates each crease of skin on his full, puckered lips, dousing them in rouge. _Sitting on the bed, with his back to the headboard._ Jongin makes him hold a single stalk of calla lily. Arrow-shaped white petals that bleed deep purple in the center, a single corn-colored stigma in the middle.

He’s started a new hobby. Kyungsoo would’ve found it amusing—if his film camera wasn’t up his face every second.

“Act natural,” Jongin commands.

Today they’re out at a new coffee place around the bend. Jongin letting his latte grow lukewarm, Kyungsoo nursing his Americano in slow sips.

It’s raining again. Their umbrellas are dripping wet by the entrance, hung on metal hooks that have lost their sheen.

Kyungsoo pouts to protest, then there’s a click. Two of them. Before Jongin hums satisfied. Fruity colors surround him like butterflies fluttering from one flower to the other.

“I don’t see how going out like this is helping with our agreement,” Kyungsoo sulks, bringing his mug up to cover his lips. “You just wanted a reason to ask me out.”

Jongin eyes glint. Mischievous like a kid plotting a prank. “You know me so well now. I told you it’ll come naturally,” he grins, peeping in the viewfinder.

“I love being with you, Kyungsoo. I don’t need reasons. I just want to spend time with you.”

Kyungsoo’s stern expression falters. Jongin captures the moment when his eyes soften— _click, click._ He sets his camera down before Kyungsoo reverts back to his usual, reticent frown.

“There you go again, saying things like that. How could you say that when you don’t really know me?” Kyungsoo prods, taking another sip. Jongin mirrors him, unwittingly initiating a staring contest.

He gives in first, giggling when Kyungsoo’s nose starts to redden from his dried-out, teary eyes.

“Sure I do,” Jongin reasons. He lifts a finger to trace the rim of his cup. “I know a lot of stuff about you. Like for one, you love to sing..”

Kyungsoo cocks up an eyebrow at that. A sharp lightning yellow pain in his chest. “How’d you know that?” he seethes. That’s something he’d rather forget. A dream that’s gathered dust.

“You said you liked songs with beautiful lyrics that touch your heart,” Jongin whispers. “You like how the melody flows into you but comes out solemn.”

Kyungsoo finishes his coffee, feeling Jongin’s gaze turn his vision pink.

“You’re a great singer, hyung,” There’s a familiar glimmer. Jongin covers half of his smile with an upturned palm. “I’d like to hear you sing again one day,” he adds.

Their steps fall in place, shoes crunching on the smooth pavement when Kyungsoo lets Jongin walk him home

Jongin’s keeping his distance, but Kyungsoo can feel every innocent brush of his arm when it swings. It’s when they pass the bus stop that Kyungsoo finds their hands entwined. Then he’s blushing, a couple of shades away from becoming as ethereal as his paintings.

It’s probably too fast. Jongin has gotten too used to this. But he’s been too lenient as well, if that’s the case. Kyungsoo wonders if he should pull back, but Jongin’s only gripping tighter—lifting their hands up to his lips tentatively, asking with his eyes— _Can I?_

When Kyungsoo doesn’t answer, he does just that.

Jongin presses a chaste kiss to the back of his hand and leaves a soft cherry blossom pink. He tears away his head to hide a grin, taking the lead when he walks ahead.

Kyungsoo dips his chin and lets out a sigh, watching it cloud his vision and fade. From this angle, he can see how the wind stirs Jongin’s hair slightly, how his shoulders seem like they could trap him. Yet strangely, Kyungsoo thinks, he trusts him enough. Rather than being scared or weary, he feels protected. Loved, even.

But maybe he’s spoken too soon. Kyungsoo perks up when Jongin takes a wrong turn, turning abruptly just before they cross the intersection with the red stop sign and blinking pedestrian lights.

“Hey, my house is the other way.”

Jongin doesn’t answer and just pulls, dragging him up the hill and stopping only when Kyungsoo tugs a little too frantically, panting.

“What’s wrong with you?! Why did you suddenly run off like that?!”

He flattens his palm against his chest to regain his breath and scrutinizes how Jongin looks distant, like he’s detached from reality. His first instinct is to reach up and cup his face to ask what’s wrong. But he doesn’t.

“Jongin,” he presses. “Why didn’t we just cross the damn street?”

Jongin avoids his eye and looks for a distraction. He resorts to watching the cars that pass by.

“I just.. don’t like walking there,” he reasons. He seems a little hesitant, a bit abrasive. “I hate it.”

Kyungsoo feels heavy in his chest when reclaims his hand, squeezing slightly. He juts out his lower lip and Kyungsoo notes how it’s gotten chapped in the middle.

“Did something happen?” he asks. He regrets it slightly when he sees Jongin’s eyes darken, shaking his head maybe too frantically.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” he says. And they leave it at that.

Kyungsoo is whisked away quickly when they continue the rest up the steep heel. He manages to look over his shoulder and catch how the pedestrian light turn red.

Jongin’s hold tightens. They take the long way home.

 

 

 

They see each other more frequently now.

Sehun delivers him small cards every other day. Each a different color. Monday, a timid emerald, shimmering, like foliage viewed from a terrace. Tuesday, sharp on the edges, a warm, tawny brown.

Inside would always be Jongin’s handwriting in its distinct rushed style. Kyungsoo would read the notes during his breaks, careful not to let Jongdae catch him, smiling all the while.

They’re nothing special, to say the least. Jongin isn’t much of a good writer than he is a painter. But Kyungsoo appreciates the effort nonetheless.

“Your poetry,” He says one day, when they’re out at one of those trendy garden cafés, “is cute.”

Jongin beams into his cup before he sips. Jazz is flowing out of the café speakers. Kyungsoo recognizes the song, but can’t place it. “I especially liked the part where you rhymed ‘ _mine_ ’ with ‘ _crime_ ’" 

He laughs when Jongin pouts shyly, rubbing at the soft yellow spot where he punches him. It’s cute, really. Kyungsoo adores the amaranth that blooms on his cheeks.

They walk home, and Jongin absolutely hates it when they have to part.

The way he holds on to Kyungsoo’s hand gets him everytime. He’s warm, smooth and bronze, like liquid metal pouring into molds. Kyungsoo feels dwarfed by his presence, but finds that he doesn’t dislike it. Not even a bit.

Three months later, paintings of all sizes fill the studio in rows of azure. Kyungsoo watches beautiful versions of him melt into one single blue when Jongin goes through each one, scribbling on his notepad. 

“What're you going to do with all them?” He asks, just when Jongin's finished with the last one. He shoves it in his pocket before he joins Kyungsoo, sitting on the floor next to him.

“I might make a collection out of it,” Jongin considers. He bites the tip of his thumb cutely, spacing out. It's a habit he does when thinking.

“Everyone's interested in you, you know? They like my portraits,” The glint in Jongin’s eyes are an impish grey. _I'm glad they see how beautiful you are_.

“Why don't you release them, then?” Kyungsoo prods, nudging his thigh with a bare foot. “I could ask Jongdae to postpone my article about you to put that in. It'll be good publicity, don't you think?" 

Jongin grabs his big toe with his fingers, shaking it as if saying hello. “I'll give you another thing to write for your article, then. Your boy got a call from the National Art Commission earlier..” he starts, lifting his eyebrows in amusement, “And it seems like I made it.” 

Kyungsoo feels his chest rise. Bright yellow, joyous white. Jongin’s smile widens.

“They loved your portrait, hyung. I’m going to Paris.”

“Paris?! Jongin, that's—!" 

“Incredible? Fantastic?”

He nods for the lack of better words, and Jongin laughs with him, linking their hands together. They're overjoyed and taken by the moment, rising up and dancing to a soundless melody. Like kids, they prance around the room and holler. Kyungsoo relishes in the happy colors that fill the solid space, turning pink, turning purple.

They stop only when Jongin's voice grows hoarse. He pulls Kyungsoo close to his chest and keeps him there, feeling the heaves of their chests rise and fall into place.

It takes a second, and a push from someone for the kiss to finally happen. When it does, Kyungsoo's only regret is not having done it sooner.

Jongin's lips on his feel like a dream. Fireworks bursting into a myriad colors. The thrill of plunging down a rollercoaster with your arms thrown in the air. It's hard to breathe with his senses flaring, but Kyungsoo's okay—beyond ecstatic, completely mesmerized.

When they pull back, it's a crackle of the aftermath. The remnants of exhilaration. Kyungsoo keeps his fingers light on Jongin's arm, feeling the small hairs standing on end.

“Kyungsoo,” Jongin whispers. He's leaning in again and Kyungsoo lets his eyes flutter shut. A beat passes and he's confused to feel nothing. He opens them again to find Jongin focused on him, looking like he has so much to say.

“What?”

“I just want to thank you.. for this. I wouldn't have gone this far if it weren't for you,” Jongin whispers, brushing away the stray hairs that have fallen on Kyungsoo's face.

“You told me to chase my dreams, before.” He says. “But now that I’m so close, it’s made me realize that.. Maybe _you_ are my dream, hyung. You are what I’ve wanted for so long.." 

Jongin presses his lips on Kyungsoo’s forehead softly. He moves his lips, like he’s whispering a secret no one else is supposed to hear.

“If this is a dream.. I’m glad I met you again.”

Jongin steps back and Kyungsoo smiles at him, feeling glad when he rearranges the order of his portraits.

The following week rolls by, and Kyungsoo’s article finally gets published.

It’s on the front page of their website, bold navy letters on a white background.

 _‘Renowned painter Kim Jongin nominated for Under 30 Emerging Artist of the Year in Paris, France_.’

The emails pour in minutes after it goes live. True enough, Jongdae is overjoyed by the positive feedback and offers to treat him and Jongin to dinner when he gets back.

“Congratulations, hyung,” Sehun simpers, cruising in his office when Jongdae prances off singing pastel blue. “I’m real happy for you guys.” 

“Thank you, Sehun,” Kyungsoo replies, feeling his cheeks glow. 

Sehun looks around his cubicle and smiles in awe at the notes that cover the walls. “I can tell he really loves you, and that you’re happy with him, too.”

Kyungsoo takes in the different colored letters and notices, for the first time, how they’ve made his drab cubicle look lively and new. He blushes at a tiny, pink one that says ‘You are _SOOper DOoper cute_ ’

He looks over when Sehun snorts and finds him reading one from his cork board, held with a bright green pushpin. “Even if time pulls us apart, I’ll still find you. Even if disasters come, or even if my rose-colored glasses are snatched away—everything will lead back to you..”

Sehun leans on the corner of Kyungsoo’s cubicle. “He has a very interesting way of writing.”

Kyungsoo throws a glare that sends him chuckling. A normal person would cower by now, but Sehun knows better than to take this tiny hyung seriously. “Jongin is not a bad writer.”

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Cause he’s the _best_ writer, yes. Especially with all these letters.” Sehun motions in sweeping vermillion. “Jongdae used to say quality over quantity all the time when he trained us, but I see now that you’ve turned rogue. This must be what love does to people, huh.” 

Sehun continues to drone on about Jongin’s writing skills, but Kyungsoo finds that sentence stuck in his head, repeating over and over.

 _Love?_ Does he love Jongin, too?

He’s never thought about it, or even considered it as something bound to happen. In his mind, Jongin has always been someone he couldn't open up to. But there’s the colors, telling him somehow, making him feel safe and happy every time they’re together. At the same time, something’s holding him back—telling him not to get too involved.

“Hyung!”

Kyungsoo looks up from his computer and sees Sehun brandishing a cocky smirk. Behind him, Jongin quickly comes into view, quiet with a small bouquet of yellow lilies.

Sehun pushes Jongin until he’s inside. He throws Kyungsoo a wink and mutters something about wigs again before disappearing to get actual work done.  

Jongin covers his face when he looks around, feeling very small surrounded by the strips of paper with his innermost feelings bared for everyone to see. But Kyungsoo knows that he’s smiling underneath. It’s evident from how his eyes sparkle slightly, emitting turquoise.

“Why are you here?” He asks, and that seems to snap Jongin out of his daze. He drawls out a long, “Uhhh—” while keeping his eyes focused on the walls, gently offering the bouquet. “This is for you, hyung—Congratulations!! I mean, um, on your article.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one giving you this?” Kyungsoo chuckles, accepting it with both hands. He lowers his head to smell the sweet, sunglow fragrance. “Congratulations on getting that nomination, Jongin.”

Jongin’s eyes soften considerably, “Thanks, Kyungsoo,” he answers, lowering himself onto the stack of pamphlets. Kyungsoo sighs. He should really get a chair or something. “Nice office you got, by the way.” Jongin grins, “I love the.. _decorating_ you’ve done here.”

Kyungsoo props the bouquet next to his computer screen, catching how the numbers in his inbox keep increasing. “Thanks,” he says. “They’re from a secret admirer.”

“Secret admirer?” Jongin repeats. He reaches out to pluck the heart-shaped letter nearest him to read. “It says here that it’s by ‘Kim Jongin.’ Isn’t he the artist guy that’s going to France? I bet these notes are worth thousands now, if they’re all really from him.” 

Kyungsoo shakes his head, amused. “This is the first time I’ve heard you this humble.”

Jongin pins the letter back and looks around proudly. Kyungsoo thinks he should feel embarrassed, but gives into this contentedness instead. Gazing at Jongin, and the warmth that surrounds him, he begins to think maybe falling in love isn’t so bad after all.. 

“Come with me tomorrow,” Jongin whispers, finding his fingers and pulling him close when he breathes glaucous blue. 

His black hair is styled stiff, but some of the strands escape to brush the front of his eyes, peering at him. Kyungsoo wills his appearance into memory. He’s breathtaking right now, filled with so much admiration, smelling of flowers. They’re surrounded by Jongin’s words, and the proof of his talent on Kyungsoo’s screen.

Falling in love, Kyungsoo thinks, is something he would like to jump into, as well.

It’s the last of his worries when he finally lets his reservations go. He takes a deep breath before plunging in deep, feeling the emotion engulf him.

He counts the threads of his heart that burst out of their seams when he answers without protest, “ _Yes_.”

 

 

 

Jongin drives to Sokcho, a two-hour getaway from the city.

They pass the landscapes and seaside settlements. The docks and local markets. Kyungsoo watches the school children run past, and the locals hang seaweed on makeshift racks to dry.

It’s past noon when they pull up to a villa overlooking the sea. The crystal blue waves crash on the jagged rocks beneath them, spraying seafoam into the air.

“This used to be my grandparents’,” Jongin explains when they're trudging up to the entrance. The freshly mowed grass is soft on their feet. “We have a caretaker who visits regularly. My mom, sister and I used to live here.”

The estate is huge and homey with wide floor-to-ceiling windows shaded by spotless curtains. Jongin shows him the impressive marble fountain and the grand white balcony smelling of the ocean breeze.

Kyungsoo sits, balancing dangerously on the wide flat railing, when Jongin sketches him. They laugh and sneak kisses too often, and Kyungsoo jokes that he’s never going to finish. Jongin replies that he can’t bring himself to care enough, and pulls Kyungsoo closer until they’re smiling into each others’ kisses.

They spend the rest of that afternoon splayed out on the living room floor, laughing and exchanging whispers in hushed teals and mulberries. Jongin wraps a white sheet around them, daring to squeeze even tighter. He laughs from the pit of his stomach, limbs flailing when Kyungsoo’s voice breaks, threatening senselessly.

Jongin drags him to the porch and spills out colored pencils. There, they begin to dumbly etch out wishes on old, pulpy paper swiped from the drawers. Elbows bumping, Jongin glances over Kyungsoo’s shoulder to sneak a peek. He whines when Kyungsoo huffs at him not to look.

When they’re finished, Jongin expertly folds their wishes into paper planes.

“First, you fold it in half. Then you do this, then again on the other side..” He mumbles, falling into a trance when he continues folding. Kyungsoo silently observes him. He watches as fiery, crimson determination sparks through. Kyungsoo inhales as he follows the beads of sweat that have started to form, tucked away in Jongin’s sideburns. He sighs and grasps at his chest, feeling the dreamy pastel pink swell, drifting into the waves crashing below.

Jongin holds them up when they’re finished. “Voila, eagles!” Two paper planes with the wings curved up, goofy faces drawn on.

He’s proud when he walks over to the ledge, examining them. “They’re better and faster than regular paper planes. I’ve been making these since I was young so you know they’re good.” He sticks his tongue out when he swings the one on his right two times, as if testing it out to fly.

Kyungsoo catches how the sunlight paints their wings ablaze. Jongin doesn’t notice.

“These can fly until Jeju, you know. Just hop on one if you’re broke,” he laughs, feeling witty.

Kyungsoo stares and stares, feeling very light when Jongin’s eyes form into bright stars. He’s overcome by a strong feeling he can’t place.

His chest softens when he thinks of always wanting to be there whenever Jongin’s laugh lines show—how he wants to see how they change hues, and show him colors that don’t yet exist. There’s nothing more than wanting to protect his smile, to wake up everyday knowing that he’s there.

“Kyungsoo!”

His heart stumbles once, but he’s slow to catch it.

Jongin hands him his plane and decides the rules. His boyish grin emerges when they rev up the engines and get ready for takeoff.

When he shouts “Go!” they release the eagles into the sky and watch them spurt out jets of cloudy, cottony white.

They won’t ever crash into the sea.

Eagles are smart and fast. They can reach the horizon and fly ‘till their wings grow tired. Until then—their wishes can wait.

 

 

 

Kyungsoo leans his head back when Jongin wraps muscular arms around his waist.

“Stop it,” he chuckles, when Jongin smirks playful, breathing into the crook of Kyungsoo’s shoulder.

Kyungsoo giggles because he’s ticklish. He pushes Jongin away lightly when his hair brushes the sensitive area around his ears. Jongin responds by digging his jaw into his collarbone, grazing peach on Kyungsoo’s nape.

The waves are turning purple now, a swollen bruise blending in with the rocks below.

“Still not telling me what wish you wrote?” Jongin hums,  trailing light touches on Kyungsoo’s skin. He stops and kisses the birthmarks on his jawbone— ‘ _my spot_ ’ he proudly declares.

“If I tell you, it might not come true.”

Kyungsoo feels Jongin pout beside him. He lets a low grumble, feigning disappointment.

“I’ll tell you my wish, then.”

He presses their faces together before Kyungsoo can retort, and the pressure spreads light emerald. His eyes spark mischievously, but there’s a hint of sadness, a secret he can’t tell.

“I wished for more time.. I wish we could just stay like this. I don’t want you far from me.”

Jongin angles Kyungsoo’s face the slightest, sending light touches of carmine pink grazing over his skin. When the sky is tinged orange, their lips brush infinitely.

The day speeds by and by evening, they’re swaying in place, holding hands in front of Kyungsoo’s apartment door. It’s another game of ‘No-you-go-first’ and it looks like Jongin is going to lose again. For the fifth time this month.

“Jongin-ah,” Kyungsoo says, trying to keep the corners of his lips from curling up more than they should. He's pulling away as gently as he can. “You have a flight tomorrow. Go home.”

Kyungsoo gets a pout that escalates into a whine. He lets out a chuckle when Jongin grabs tighter onto his sleeve, “I’m going to be half the world away. And I won’t be seeing you for five days.." 

“Five days is a short while!” Kyungsoo jests. “Get up on that stage. Make Korea proud.”

Jongin looks at him fondly, eyes misting. Kyungsoo counts the lilacs that float around them. Then Jongin leans in with a surrendering kiss, whispering “No one else matters, hyung. I only love you,” when he draws back.

Kyungsoo feels his heart soar and thump a hundred beats per minute.

“Love me?”

Jongin nods, kissing him again. This time when they part, it’s a solid deep purple. Jongin keeps his forehead on Kyungsoo’s, steady and breathing slow when he connects their eyes.

“I love you, Kyungsoo. I’ve always have.”

Jongin steals a peck before he finally retreats down the steps slowly. Kyungsoo catches the way his shoulders flex when he takes care not to trip over the cement cracks, and how his hair sways dusty rose in the evening.

Then, it hits him. Fast and refreshing, like he's finally resurfaced from that whirlpool he’s been stuck in.

Even in the bedroom in Sokcho, distracted while packing up, on the drive home with the sunset painting Jongin’s face every happy color he knows, and until now.

Kyungsoo clutches his chest and feels so full. It rings in his head like a bell he can't ignore. It's at the tip of his tongue—ready to burst. This must be what it feels like to be so in love.

“I guess I'll see you in a few days, then?” Jongin calls out. He's a few meters away now, walking away while facing him. He looks back briefly to see if he's going to hit anything, and lifts a hand to say goodbye when he finds nothing. 

Kyungsoo copies him, feeling his cheeks rise up until they’re hurting, his smile expand until he’s sure his gums are exposed for all the world to see.

He shakes his head disapprovingly when Jongin almost bumps into a streetlight, muttering _idiot_ under his breath when Jongin stumbles a bit.

A lovable idiot, he quickly notes.

He looks after him until his back is a dot in the distance. Once he's disappeared, that's when Kyungsoo finally goes in. And even then, he already feels like seeing Jongin again.

 

 

 

He wakes up with a jolt in the middle of the night. It's a call from Jongin.

“Hello?” Kyungsoo answers, trying not to sound too groggy.

“Hey..”

“Jongin-ah.. It's.. two in the morning. Are you in the plane now?”

“Yeah, I am.” Jongin says. “We're waiting for takeoff.” Kyungsoo can hear the cinnamon in his voice. “I see,” he answers.

“I sorry if I woke you up..” he continues. “I just wanted to hear your voice.. That and I finally read your article. It was great, by the way. I could tell you were talking about a really great painter.”

Kyungsoo laughs, “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Thank you, really. I wish you could go with me.” Jongin drifts off, his voice tapering into a soft, pearly petal. “I miss you..”

“ _Already_?” Kyungsoo grins. His eyes are shut. He's a little guilty for feeling sleepy. “We’ll see each other soon enough." 

Silence follows after and Kyungsoo feels like he's floating. His room is surrounded by tiny specks of golden dust.

“Jongin-ah, take care, okay?”

He can feel Jongin smile from the other end, the image vivid behind his closed eyelids, “I will, hyung. That's the fourth time you told me.”

“Call me when you land.”

“Yeah, I will.” Jongin utters. There’s sounds of tray tables snapping shut, and a feminine voice asking him to keep his phone. “I have to go, hyung.”

“Okay, then. Take care.” 

“Fifth time,” Jongin notes, grin unwavering. A bit hurriedly he adds, “I love you. Talk to you soon.”

Kyungsoo musters a drowsy, clouded terra cotta “Love..” before drifting back to sleep.

 

 

 

When he wakes up, it’s dark cerulean. Roaring, like thunder on his rooftop.

Kyungsoo sits up to peek from his curtains and feels his sheets pool at his stomach. Outside, it’s raining hard. Water is pelting his window and the wind is howling. Deep and haunting, like a ghost when it whips dirty taupe on his window, plastering withered, mangled leaves on the glass.

He clutches at his chest and feels frightened.

 _Jongin_ …

Kyungsoo scrambles for his phone and hisses when the light assaults his sensitive pupils. 

He loses hold and hears it crash to the floor. A loud fluorescent green. Like a blaring, deafening horn, like multiple limbs pulling him underwater. He reaches for it, only to see that his screen has cracked.

 _I wished for more time,_ he remembers, Jongin’s voice still clear in his head. _I wish we could just stay like this. I don’t want you far from me_.

The notifications are popping up fast, drowning him.

He’s trying to resurface and desperately breathe for air, but he’s getting sucked in. Further and further, until he’s surrounded in darkness.

When his eyes finally adjust—the colors are missing.

_[BREAKING] Air Paris Flight AF233 missing at sea_


	2. Chapter 2

Kyungsoo feels like he's in a dream.

Everything is a blur. Unfocused in shards of grey.

He's ushered into his editor’s car in the morning. He watches Jongdae shield his head from the passenger seat when he runs to the driver’s side. He rushes inside with a slam of the door. Kyungsoo expects color, but sees nothing.

“Kyungsoo, I want you to listen carefully to me, okay?”

He looks at the windshield wipers that snap back and forth quickly. Like hands. Like fireflies. No color here, too.

“I asked some of the people I know from media. They said police are halting investigation because of the typhoon.”

Jongdae grips the steering wheel firm with his white knuckles. Rain continues to strike down in an endless shower. “They're sending out the coast guard once the storm clears...”

Kyungsoo's head spins.

“But.. they're saying it's hopeless, Kyungsoo. It's the open seas and.. the winds are so strong, and—”

Jongdae drops his head on the steering wheel. He breathes in shakily.

“I, I can't say it.”

It is along with the noiseless drawl that Kyungsoo realizes—

The colors are gone.

 

 

 

Hurried footsteps and hushed whispers.

Kyungsoo has his head turned to the weight of Jongdae’s hand on his shoulder, telling him to take a week off work. “I know it’s hard for you,” he says. “And it’s best if you stay out of the public eye for a while." 

He sighs when he shakes his head, letting his hand drop to his side. More than anything, Kyungsoo is bothered by the lack of feeling, the colors that would normally flow out of him—missing.

“Try not to look at your phone too often. People are sprouting dumb shit about you, saying it’s a conspiracy, saying that you both planned this. Trust me, they’re things you wouldn’t want to see.”

The seriousness in his eyes should be a steady flicker of red. But now it’s is a pale, bland pink. Like Kyungsoo is looking through him underwater. He’s never seen red so cold until now.

When he returns home, it’s empty and oppressing.

He's cold with the rain that's soaked through his thin black coat. Outside, the storm rages on. Kyungsoo pads over to his bed and catches the creases, counting how many are left on his sheets that know a body other than his.

That afternoon, he makes his way to Jongin’s apartment. 

It’s tidy and spotless. The people from abroad have gathered his portraits last week, so there’s nothing here save for the stuff that already existed before them. Kyungsoo makes his way to the table and runs his hand over the ridges that have absorbed the color. He tries to take them in, but finds that he can’t.

The spot where Jongin usually keeps his palette is empty. His notepad isn’t there either. But everything else is still here..

Kyungsoo feels the corner of his eyes dampen. And it hits him just then. Everything that he’s pushed back. It falls apart and crushes him with so much intensity.

 _Jongin_.

He stumbles to check the other rooms, throwing the doors open and knocking over the furniture. But he isn’t there. _Jongin._ He pulls the closet open and leaves no cabinet left ajar. He checks the balcony, the cafe by the bend, and even the pedestrian crossing that he’s strongly avoided.

But Jongin isn’t anywhere.

Kyungsoo dials his number over and over, and gets greeted by the same cheery voice, repeating in his voicemail. He calls enough times to memorize the words in order. When he hangs up, it’s always a fading, desperate copper, a hopeless dark blue. It’s the pit of the whirlpool that he’ll never get out of.

It’s okay, maybe.

Kyungsoo tries to stabilize his breathing when the cars speed past him. The light is still red.

They flew their wishes into the sea where he knows the wind will grant them.

Kyungsoo grips his fists tightly and feels his nails dig welts into his skin when the light turns green.

Weeks pass, taking the months with them. 

Kyungsoo sits in Jongin’s deserted studio just as he’s left it. 

He wants to be right here when Jongin comes back, so he comes everyday and sits there for as long as he can; listening to the wind chime when the air breezes through, watching the sky change colors, the tree shed its leaves. He thinks of how Jongin may paint them. What kind of colors, which shades of blue he’ll use.

He stops to buy flowers and decorates Jongin’s empty balcony with them.

He throws out the withered, sad ones from last week to replace them with Bellflowers and morning glories. Columbines and Veronicas. Bluebells and.. azaleas. He takes care to water them often and leans back on the railing, watching the clouds pass by.

Kyungsoo keeps very still, and his eyes trained on the space where Jongin propped up his canvas, concentrated and passionate. He can almost see the outlines of him. His jaw clenching, teeth biting down on his lip. The bump on his nose that’s endearing.

Kyungsoo tries his best not to move but feels his chest cinch tightly so.

It hurts, he thinks.

Not his lower back. But the absence. Small sobs escape him. He tries to keep them in, but once the first one cracks through, everything follows. Soon, his tears fall on lonely petal buds, tainting them violet.

 _I won’t move anymore_ , he thinks. _I won’t even complain_. Nothing is changing no matter how much he wishes. He stays there emptying his regrets, pleading with his paper plane that’s lost fuel.

_I’ll let you paint me all you want, Jongin. Just please come back._

 

 

 

Winter arrives and takes Jongin with it.

Kyungsoo watches blankly as the movers empty his studio, piling his things on a small truck destined for nowhere. The landlady tapes a notice on the front door sheepishly, muttering her regrets. It’s been reclaimed by the bank, and pretty soon it’ll be someone’s home as well.

He’s made the decision to stay in his hometown for the time being. Luckily, Jongdae was understanding and let him go after much convincing.

It’s a few days later that he packs his things and falls in line for the night bus. Jongdae and Sehun are behind him, bickering. Kyungsoo sighs and watches his breath melt away into the air. When he lifts his head up to squint at its remains, there’re two palms on either side of his back.

“You sure you’re going to be okay?” Jongdae asks. A little hesitant. Like he’s afraid Kyungsoo would break down crying. Sehun presses harder and rubs on his shoulder. Kyungsoo can make out the topaz somewhere underneath his clothes—but it’s too hazy to see.

“Yes, mom,” Kyungsoo smiles. It’s a half-hearted attempt, but it succeeds in lightening the mood. Sehun lands a soft punch on his arm, “Call us once you get home, hyung.” He pouts for a moment then quickly adds, “I’m gonna miss you.”

Jongdae scoffs and swipes at an imaginary (real?) tear that’s caught on the corners of his eyes. He gathers the three of them into a tight hug and releases only when Kyungsoo starts coughing.

They watch him climb up and wobble through the narrow aisle, and settle into his seat. The sky is turning a murky grey, like it’s going to rain. Sehun waves goodbye with his pink mouth sprouting unending well-wishes. Kyungsoo thinks he looks stupid, but feels his heart soften once he locks eyes with Jongdae looking on quietly.

When he leaves, it’s as if he’s abandoned the rest of the colors. Kyungsoo watches from the window as Seoul grows smaller and smaller. The farther he gets, the more he imagines them stuck in the crevices of his floorboards, waiting still. Hoping for a someday that’s never going to come.

 

 

 

His parents are welcoming, the same as usual, when he gets home. Eomma’s prepared his favorite doenjang jjigae. “It’s less spicy. Just the way you like it,” she smiles warmly. Motherly, and just as he’s remembered it, when she pours some into his bowl.

No one asks about his sudden return, and he figures that they must understand. It’s been all over the news, and the press has been hounding him ever since Jongin’s disappearance. It was a wise choice to head back here, overall.

The brown soup doesn’t glimmer, but it tastes exactly the same. The colors have never been as vivid ever since Jongin—

There’s a noise from the living room. His brother, Seungsoo lets out a groan when he enters the dining room, stretching his arms over his head. Appa pushes a chair out for him that Seungsoo takes with a low “Thanks.” He locks eyes with Kyungsoo when he settles in his seat. 

“You’re back,” he starts.

“Seungsoo,” Eomma warns. “The food is going cold.”

He shoots Kyungsoo a cold glare before picking up his chopsticks, grabbing two pieces of kimchijeon and dropping them on his plate. “To think we went through all that trouble just for you to end up like this.. Such a shame.”

A chair screeches on the wooden floors and Kyungsoo stiffens when a fist slams on the table. He looks up slowly to see his mother shaking beside him, with both hands flat on her lap. Seungsoo is unmoving, a dark look in his eyes while their father fumes.

“Apologize,” he seethes. Though blurry, Kyungsoo sees it’s an angry burgundy.

“Are we really going through this again? Lowering my head to your favorite son?” Seungsoo places his chopsticks down on his plate. It’s too forceful and one of them rolls off to the side. Kyungsoo chases after it with his eyes until it falls over the table. A soundless, metal clang.

“I had to go through military first, appa. You didn’t even listen to what I had to say. You controlled me, but with Kyungsoo—it’s okay! One little accident, and you and Eomma are both all over him again!”

“Enough!!”

Another thud, the sound of jjigae spilling onto the floor. Eomma is crying again. 

That’s right, Kyungsoo remembers. The quarreling turns into white noise. He’s shrinking smaller and smaller, until he’s reminded of why he left home in the first place.

The air in his room is stiff and humid, but not like he’s been gone for long. Kyungsoo slides his window open and lets his knees sink deeper onto his unmade mattress.

It’s cold tonight. The kind of night Jongin would call him up to talk about nothing—everything. Kyungsoo’s deadlines, Jongin’s lack of direction. All the while luminescent oranges dance around in his vision. And it would help, then, to make the cold a little bit bearable. They would stay like that until one of them falls asleep, soft snores as a lullaby for the other.

Kyungsoo clutches his knees to his chest and tries to remember how Jongin’s warm hands felt. But there’s nothing. He feels alone. Useless, in a sense. Even in a place where there is absolutely no trace of him, Kyungsoo can’t help but remember.

And for the next few days, Kyungsoo feels like he’s stuck in a dream.

Nothing seems real to him—the voices of his family coming and passing in ebs of plain, weak cream. He wonders if time has stopped. Maybe it’s even gone backward, because sometimes he swears seeing the days fly by so fast, but in reverse—like the shadow of the sun slowly rising up when it should be setting. But maybe he’s just sleep-deprived.

Baekhyun drops by his house on Monday.

Kyungsoo breaks into a small smile when he spots him walk up the stone steps from the gate. How long has it been since they’ve last seen each other?

Baekhyun hugs him and pats his back. “It’s so good to see you, Soo! I hope you’re doing better now.” He ruffles his hair and excuses himself to greet Kyungsoo’s parents. Kyungsoo watches how Eomma smiles and swats at Baekhyun’s arm playfully when he compliments her, and how Appa rants about how much he’s grown. 

Kyungsoo feels nostalgic. Nothing’s changed. Baekhyun looks the same.

He lets Baekhyun lead the way to his room like always.

“School’s been so boring without you, Soo,” Baekhyun groans. He drags his hand behind him, letting it trail purple on the wooden handrail. “But I’m glad you’re back. You have to be more careful next time, okay?”

Baekhyun twists the knob to his door open, mumbling something about _accidents_ and _hospitals_ that Kyungsoo doesn’t quite catch. The door creaks loudly, and he stops before they enter. 

Kyungsoo watches Baekhyun walk right in and plop himself on his unmade bed. He kicks off his house slippers and stretches his body into a straight line. The action causes him to nudge Kyungsoo’s box a little too close off the edge. He yelps in response, but manages to catch it before it falls. 

Baekhyun lets out a shaky sigh. “Sorry about that,” he says, pulling it closer. Kyungsoo places his backpack on the chair by his study desk. He catches the way Baekhyun peers into his box curiously. “God, that was heavy. What do you have in this? There’s— _so much stuff_.”

Kyungsoo swallows, feeling his chest tighten when Baekhyun peruses the photo frame left facing down. His fingers are long and pretty, specks of grainy orchid pink crumbling from them when he flips it over.

It’s a photo of him and Jongin. The only one of them since he was always so preoccupied taking photos of Kyungsoo that he’s never bothered to take one of them together.

Jongin’s cheek is pressed flushed against his, full lips barely grazing Kyungsoo's scrunched up expression. There’s a white blanket wrapped around them. If Kyungsoo concentrates hard enough, he can still make out the colors. Milky peach-white. The feeling of being so happy.

Baekhyun narrows his eyes. “When was this, Kyungsoo?” He looks over and catches Kyungsoo’s eye with a smirk. “You’ve only been back for a couple of days, but you’re already getting busy, huh?” He teases, wriggling his eyebrows for measure. 

Kyungsoo looks at him suspiciously. Is he doing this on purpose? Maybe he’s just messing with him, or maybe he’s just trying to get on his nerves.

He snatches the frame away wordlessly, putting it inside the box and placing it back on his desk.

Baekhyun leans forward to level their faces, pressing on. “Did you meet him at the hospital? How do you even meet guys there, though!”

Kyungsoo throws him a glare. “What are you talking about? What hospital?”

Baekhyun blinks at him, puzzled. Outside, a truck passes by. The sound of its engine cuts through the tension. Baekhyun holds his expression when he sinks down with a resigned sigh. “I’m sorry, Soo. I shouldn’t have forced you to tell me. This entire thing must’ve been hard for you.”

Kyungsoo bites his lip, slightly annoyed. Baekhyun reaches for his backpack and pulls out a long, rectangular envelope. 

“Soooo.. to take your mind off of things—” He grins, flipping Kyungsoo’s palm upwards and placing the envelope there. “I bagged these tickets from Chanyeol. He got these from his sister, but he gave them to me, instead.”

Kyungsoo inches back cautiously. What is Baekhyun talking about? Chanyeol moved to America half a year ago. 

“Kyungsoo, what are you doing? Open it, hurry!” Baekhyun urges, squirming. The bed shakes a bit. It’s peony. Weird. The first vivid color in ages. 

He untucks the flap carefully, making sure not to leave any dents or creases. Kyungsoo slides out the contents and lets out a surprised gasp when he notices that they’re _glowing_.

 _Korea National University of Arts - Annual Graduation Exhibit 2016_  

Kyungsoo double-takes. _2016?_

“I know you probably don’t want anything to do with singing and all, but Chanyeol says this might make you reconsider. So, please, Soo? Come with me?”

 _Singing_. That’s a word he still can’t bear to hear. But there’s something else more important now. Something urging him to read further. Kyungsoo skips the sponsors and student board. His eyes land on that familiar name, and for the first time he swears he sees things clearly. 

_Kim Jongin, Senior_

It's warm at the corners of his eyelids that vision can't reach.

 

 

 

 

At evening, he takes note of the changes.

Indeed, everything’s exactly as he’s remembered it last.

Kyungsoo draws in a deep breath and tries to calm himself down, remembering the last time he came home was also the night he left for Seoul— _almost a year ago_.

Looking around, it’s slowly sinking in. The realization, creeping up his chest and into his skin. It isn’t odd, he thinks, that his room is the same. But what’s been bothering him most are the things outside of it. 

Eomma, Appa, and Seungsoo. Baekhyun and Chanyeol. The houses lining their street, and even the hustle bustle of the town at noon. Everything is exactly the same and without change. 

Of course there are things that stay the same for a long time, but there’s a pesky feeling lingering at the back of his head. _Maybe it’s not that. Maybe it’s more._

Kyungsoo lifts himself off his bed and digs into his drawers. The woods scrapes faint mauve. A couple of spare pens tumble out. There is a pair of scissors inside the first drawer, and a bunch of paper clips, thumb tacks, unused Post-Its that he swears he’s thrown out before moving.

In the second drawer are photos from high school—of Kyungsoo grinning wide with peace signs thrown up. There’s pictures from the field trip, taken from inside the classroom, and from the school festival. But nothing new. Kyungsoo feels more desperate when he yanks the third drawer open and spots the letters piled on top of each other.

The dread, the frustration and regret are still as fresh.

He grabs one and levels it to his face to read. Skimming through, Kyungsoo makes out the words ‘ _get well soon_ ’ and ‘ _wish you well_.’

They’re all here. Letters still wishing for his quick recovery. Right here, back like he’s never burned them. Like the night Baekhyun held him tightly while he sobbed to sleep never existed.

Kyungsoo’s head throbs. Mustard brown. Almost something he’s accustomed to. He grips the corner of his desk and hurries to his door, rushing downstairs. He stops when he spots Appa by the sink washing dishes. His heaving makes the older man turn to face him. His smile falters a bit when he takes in Kyungsoo’s expression, “What’s wrong, son?”

On his skin, Kyungsoo sees faint coral. Suddenly it’s there, but then it’s gone—back to a dull, fleshy beige.

He releases hold on the letters and lets them spill on the shiny kitchen table. Appa looks on in concern. They scatter, some of them falling off when they’re blown by the wind.

“Appa,” Kyungsoo says. His voice is close to breaking. He feels trapped. But there’s something he has to hear, _needs_ to hear. Just to know if it’s really true.

“What happened to me?” 

Appa twists the faucet shut. It squeaks noisily, a spark of violet. “I’m sorry, son. I know it might be hard for you, still. Doctor Lee advised us to give you all the time you need to adjust.” He pulls a chair across Kyungsoo and invites him to sit beside him, quietly gathering the letters into his hands. 

Kyungsoo watches his hands move, stacking them into one bundle. Colorful letters. Like those tacked to his cubicle walls.

“Eomma and I, and even Seungsoo—we all want you to live a normal life.” 

Appa’s look of concern meets his eyes, and it’s there. A very striking, hopeless black. The color of midnight. The murky, dark sea. 

“I know your dream is important to you,” he says. Kyungsoo chokes, there are tears streaming down his cheeks. Down the same route, the same way they did a year ago, too. Appa reaches out to pat his shoulders, and Kyungsoo shuts his eyes in anticipation.

“But son, that accident damaged your vocal cords badly.. We’re lucky you can still speak. But singing..” he sighs. “It’s something you would have to keep away from.”

Outside, rain begins to dots the windows lightly—its shadows slowly covering the dining table like puzzle pieces. Kyungsoo stares at the letters neatly placed in the center, and how they’re tainted orange from the street light streaming in. 

He’s back at the lowest point of his life. The aftermath of the accident he’d rather forget.

Walking up the stairs back to his room, Kyungsoo wonders why he hasn’t realized it sooner.

It should’ve been obvious the moment Seungsoo started a fit in the kitchen. But then again, he’s always known his brother to lash out irrationally. It really only came to him when Baekhyun came over.

But Baekhyun saw his photo with Jongin. And all his things from Seoul are still here, waiting to be unpacked.

Maybe, this isn’t the past if there are still traces of the present that he knows. Maybe this is a different timeline, a different life? 

Kyungsoo opens his door and approaches his phone buzzing by his study desk. It’s a text from Baekhyun.

_See you this weekend? Let’s take the bus to Seoul together._

He stares at the message until his phone grows dim.

Only one way to find out.

 

 

 

On Sunday, Kyungsoo walks behind Baekhyun, letting him lead the way.

“It says here that it’s a ten minute walk from the train station,” Baekhyun says, zooming out of his smartphone app. “I’m glad you said yes, Soo! I really wanted to go with you.”

They spot a line from far away and Baekhyun takes the time to ask Kyungsoo which part of the exhibit he’s most excited for. Kyungsoo looks around for any familiar faces, but there are none.

“I want to see the paintings,” he answers, playing with the folded edges of his pamphlet. His eyes catch on Jongin’s name in white. Baekhyun nods slowly, trying to process what he just said. “You seem like you’re into art nowadays,” he hums, smiling at the ticket attendant when she asks for their tickets. She returns the stubs and directs them to the left end of the lobby. Kyungsoo looks down at his ticket. A flicker of dijon. Almost there.

Baekhyun steps inside and lets out an appreciative gasp when he marvels at the great expanse of the center piece. There’s an attention-grabbing giant tree in the middle, made out of wires and colorful recycled computer parts. 

Kyungsoo starts with the leftmost row of paintings, and walks through them quickly.

Each one seems to reach out and grab at him with different art styles coming to life. He ducks when a flock of magpies soar out of a scenic countryside, barely brushing his hair. There’s a couple of giggles that play at his ears when he spots translucent fairy nymphs dipping their toes into an emerald pool, and there’s dark, glittery gel that flows out of an interpretation of a distant star.

Each painting is beautiful. But there’s _just one_ that Kyungsoo really needs to see.

Baekhyun pats his arm and gestures at the next hall. “Would you mind if I went over to watch the chorale? It’s starting in a few minutes.. But I totally understand if you don’t want me to.”

Kyungsoo winces. Does Baekhyun pity him? He scoffs when he shakes his head, joking a little when he tells Baekhyun to get lost. He watches as Baekhyun fakes a hurt expression before running off to the doors hurriedly. Kyungsoo laughs when he almost trips on air. Baekhyun’s such an ass. 

He’s about to move to the next row of paintings when he spots a glint of something sparkling. Kyungsoo looks back and spots blue.. hidden between two pillars that seem to glow from where it’s hung. 

His steps are heavy, echoing in waves of orange on the polished floors. Kyungsoo feels its chest hollow out when it comes into full view.

The canvas is bathed in a striking cerulean blue. The color is seamless even when you look at it up close. There are two jets of cloudy white smoke trailing from the two small paper airplanes at the center of the painting.

Kyungsoo loses his breath.

His chest begins to throb, gripping at the emotions swirling inside him. He looks at the plaque by the side and feels something familiar stinging his tear ducts.

_Wishes at Sokcho by Kim Jongin_

 

 

 

Kyungsoo looks for him.

He’s alive— _somewhere_. Jongin is somewhere in this world—walking, sleeping, laughing, painting.. He’s alive and existing!

Kyungsoo swerves past the figures leisurely enjoying the paintings and surveys their faces, feet never stopping, and torso maneuvering carefully. He stumbles out of the hall and checks the other places. He doesn’t let a single face go past him, not even caring if it makes him look weird. All that matters is Jongin is _here_ , and he’s got to find him.

The afternoon comes and soon, Kyungsoo meets up with Baekhyun itching to go home. He tells him to go ahead, and trudges on, circling the vicinity in search for Jongin.

Another hour passes and sounds of doors shutting and walls closing assault Kyungsoo’s ears. He strains his eyes to search for Jongin desperately. But he's nowhere. Not here. Just a faded memory.

Hopeless and defeated, he enters the nearest convenience store, hoping to find something refreshing to chug on the bus ride home.

He acknowledges the cashier at the front who greets him when he heads straight for the refrigerators. Kyungsoo spots another customer from the top of the snacks shelf. Fluffy, loose blonde hair, reaching for the rack above him.

He spares a glance, and then Kyungsoo notices, unmistakably at the end of the aisle—holding a white piece of paper that looks like it’s dripping from the edges—

“Kim Jongin..”

Jongin—this Jongin who is blonde with a rounder face, skinnier body, and a naive expression, looks at him without much regard. Like he’s a stranger, like he’s nobody special. Like he’s never known him. 

Jongin winces slightly when he drops the hand on his forehead down to his side. “Yes?” His voice pitches up, echoing in Kyungsoo's head. It’s a light, plain cream. Like seashells. Like paper planes flying. 

He takes a few steps forward to take in Jongin’s face. It’s him, really him. From the slope of his nose, to the cleft of his chin. “I can’t believe it’s _you_...” 

At that, Jongin looks at him blankly, unreadable. He lowers the milk cartons in his basket before repositioning his hands on the handle, cold and distant in thistle purple. “Are you from K-Arts?”

Kyungsoo nods, falling victim to the flow. “I-I saw your works.. I was wondering if you had interest in portraits.” He says this without thinking, a desperate attempt to keep the conversation going. 

Jongin looks pensive. He ponders on the idea, small teeth settling on the nail of his thumb. He bites the tip cutely, spacing out. It's a habit he does, Kyungsoo knows too well.

Hues of violet-blue and watermelon dance around them. Familiar colors over a familiar stranger.

“Actually,” he starts.

There’s a sparkle in his eyes. Kyungsoo’s heart aches for it.

“I’ve been thinking about trying them out. My professor suggested I could do well and I’ve always thought it would be interesting, just—I don’t have anyone, really. I don’t have anyone to paint.”

“Paint me.”

“Huh?”

Jongin looks at him, a touch incredulous. And Kyungsoo dares, remembering their first encounter, to touch him.

He reaches out for his wrist. When his fingers brush his skin, it spreads across his body. Shilo pink, gunmetal, Cambridge blues, canary yellows, warm hues of caramel, chocolate, gold like warm blankets, the sun by Sokcho— _Jongin._

Kyungsoo flinches when Jongin exclaims, stepping backward. He glares at him accusingly, rubbing his hand and keeping it to his chest, panting. “What was that?!”

He swallows, feeling a chill run through. “You felt that too, didn’t you?”

“I don’t understand—”

“You saw the colors.” Kyungsoo presses, closing the space between them. Jongin retreats until his back is on the shelves. His feet nudge the abandoned basket, and the cartons shake, the liquid inside swishing with the movement.

Kyungsoo realizes—this is his painting. The convenience store with the lone basket. He recalls him say somewhere in his past, _The moments that mattered to me, are the ones I chose to immortalize on canvas_.

“Jongin,” he continues. “Paint _me_.”

“I don’t even know you. Leave me alone.”

He tries to push his way out, but Kyungsoo stops him. “But you do know me. We’ve met before. In the past.”

Jongin looks up to meet him, eyes swirling marble, melting whites and blacks. He’s stuck, unmoving, frozen on the spot. Kyungsoo takes a deep breath when the line resonates in his head—deep like an unwashed palette, rich like hands molding patterns onto his skin, heartfelt, and broken, filled with so much emotion—

“Two days before tomorrow..” he reasons. “That’s what you told me then.”

Something's stinging in his eyes. It's a deep realization, a shadow of a thought that’s fading. Reflected in Jongin's eyes, Kyungsoo feels braver. 

He voices it out before the colors disappear. He says it before his memories fail him.

“Two days before tomorrow, that’s when you loved me.”

 

 

 

In the past that Kyungsoo knows, Jongin was already an established painter. But here, in this warped timeline—it’s different.

“I don’t do portraits,” Jongin frowns.

They're outside the Art Department building. Jongin is on his way home. It’s almost six, and the sky is beginning to darken, with small specks of tangerine lingering still. Kyungsoo follows him closely, skipping to keep up when Jongin widens his stride.

“I have a compromise!” He speaks up. They continue chase, breaking a couple meters apart when Jongin refuses to slow down. “Two nights ago, I got into _Next Issue_. Have you heard of it? I write for them now!” Kyungsoo heaves, remembering the email he received from Jongdae. He dodges a pebble that flies from the sole of Jongin’s sneakers.

They reach the pedestrian crossing across the train station, and Kyungsoo looks at how Jongin groans mulberry.

“I write you, you paint me” he breathes, coughing a bit when his throat tightens too much. Jongin glares at him, but Kyungsoo only keeps his eyes focused. “I know it’s a long shot. But I’m asking you to trust the colors. You can think of me as a weird stranger all you want. But we both know those colors were real. They were _there_.”

Jongin sways his head back front and counts the red dots slowly decreasing. Kyungsoo wipes the sweat from his forehead and pleads with the pent-up desperation in his chest.

“Don’t you think they mean something? I-Imagine painting them, putting them to life on canvas.. The possibilities!”

The pedestrian light blinks on its last red dot. Kyungsoo grips his fists. He wracks his brain to find the next thing to say, and grins when he remembers his email. “And my first assignment is to find new talents. It’s the perfect timing for you, Jongin-ah.” He quickly covers his mouth when he realizes the over-familiarity. Jongin chuckles.

The light turns green, but neither of them move. Kyungsoo looks up at Jongin. His dirty blonde hair flutters when people pass by. It’s a little dark at the roots, a bit brassy near the crown.

“Paint me,” Kyungsoo says. “Then you’ll see that we really do go back.” The words Jongin told him find their way to his throat, climbing up and making their way out his parted lips.

“I will introduce you to the Jongin I know, and to the Kyungsoo you’ve known all along.”

Jongin’s eyes soften. He’s a touch hesitant when his fingers reach Kyungsoo’s wrist. It travels in smooth waves of gold. Warmth and comfort. Kyungsoo shudders when the colors float beneath his eyelids. Jongin senses it too, because now he’s adjusting his grip so that their hands are intertwined.

Suddenly Jongin’s tugging him, laughing when they struggle to make it to the other side of the crossing. His wide shoulders shift and flex underneath his taupe coat. Kyungsoo watches it whip through the air, sprinkling alabaster that lands like rocks on the asphalt.

Jongin’s voice is bright, cheerful salmon. He keeps Kyungsoo’s hand in his, letting out a satisfied hum when the cars speed away—blurs of neon against the nightscape. Jongin squeezes his hand once, letting it go when the finally catch their breaths.

“I’ll paint you,” he finally says. He smiles for the first time, and Kyungsoo feels warm sunlight from the places his fingertips touched, the scent of seafoam light on his nose. “Since you asked so nicely,” Jongin adds. He reaches inside his coat to pull out his wallet. It’s leather, with a couple of flecks of paint on it. “Here’s my card. Call me anytime.” It’s white and sharp at the edges. Jongin’s name is printed bold at the center with his contact details below.

They part when Jongin waves goodbye, glittery merigold after him. Kyungsoo returns home and lies still inside his old bedroom. He sets an alarm to inquire about his old—new apartment. Setting his phone down, his head throbs, but the pain goes away when he falls into a dreamless sleep.

 

 

 

Another thing Kyungsoo finds strange about this timeline is having to introduce himself and act like he doesn’t know people he’s grown attached to.

He stifles a snicker when Jongdae shows him to his ‘new’ cubicle. “You’re expected to be here on weekdays. Office hours are from 9 to 5. Call if you’re gonna be late, or if you can’t make it to work.” Jongdae twists his hands together, hollowing the poster in his grasp. He stops at the entrance, and right then a familiar face pokes out of the next corner.

It’s Sehun. Kyungsoo suppresses a smile when he rises from his seat. He remembers being surprised at how tall he was the first time they met.

“This is Sehun, our copywriter,” Jongdae gestures. Sehun gives him a knowing look. The first time they met, Kyungsoo recalls being annoyed at feeling judged, but now he knows better. It’s just his default face. Sehun’s actually confessed to liking him at first sight.

“Hello,” Sehun greets. He looks Kyungsoo up and down a couple of times before pinching his cheek. “I like you already, hyung. You’re so cute.” There it is.

Jongdae rolls his eyes dramatically before hitting Sehun’s hand with his poster. “Learn some manners, maknae,” he hisses. His phone rings in bolts of loud emerald. Jongdae excuses himself to rush back to his own office.

Kyungsoo enters the cubicle and feels a little sad finding that Jongin’s letters aren’t there. He sets down his satchel on the desk and sighs when he leans back on his chair, letting his eyes close for a bit until Jongdae comes back—

“Is it true you asked for an assignment right away?”

Kyungsoo lets out a groan when Sehun slides in, huddling too close for comfort. “Most of the new people don’t get to do stuff until after a few days, but I heard from Jongdae hyung that you practically _begged_ him to let you write about Upcoming Artists the moment he mentioned it.”

“ _Begged_ is kind of stretching it. I just wanted to get started, that’s all.” Kyungsoo reasons. Sehun hums in response and proceeds to cling to his arm, invading his space and asking too many personal questions. Kyungsoo remembers feeling awkward back in the past, but now he lets Sehun grip him tight.

At four o’clock, Kyungsoo gets out of work and makes his way to the address Jongin told him to go to. It’s his studio. Red bricks, thin, veiny vines thuat crawl up under the rooftop plumbing. Kyungsoo feels nervous for some reason. Everything still hasn’t sunk in yet.

He rings the doorbell and observes the rusty numbers above the flaking wood door. A few moments later, there are heavy footsteps approaching, and Kyungsoo steps back once he hears the door being unlocked.

“Hey,” Jongin greets. Kyungsoo catches his smile and how it glows when the corners of his mouth tug up. His eyes crinkle ever so slightly, and Kyungsoo yearns for him. He wonders why it must always be a constant for him—to feel so strongly for Jongin, to have him nearby always, but so far from reach at the same time.

Inside, it’s a little different from how Kyungsoo remembers. There are flowers—lined facing the window. Pretty small ones, and flamboyant, striking blue tulips. Jongin stops in front of a pot and gently plucks one out of the bunch to hand it to Kyungsoo.

“Would you mind posing with this for me?”

He takes the time to mind Jongin’s expression. It’s peaceful and resigned. Kyungsoo takes the flower and holds it to his nose to smell. “Are we starting right now?” He asks, sitting on the tall stool set in the middle. Jongin walks back and picks up a pencil from the wooden table Kyungsoo remembers perfectly. “I don’t like wasting time,” he admits. His right hand reaches out to pluck a thin sketchbook from behind a stack of paint tubes at the corner.

Kyungsoo straightens his back and tries to relax. Jongin chuckles when he spots him stiff and jittery. “I’m going to sketch you first, okay? You can pose with the tulip however you want.”

Kyungsoo nods and watches how Jongin’s eyes burn the moment he lets his pencil take over. There’s a faint velvet hue surrounding him. It’s overwhelming. He grips at the fabric on his knee and stares. The more he sees Jongin like this, in front of him, creating art and completely passionate—the more he feels that this is how it should be.

Jongin breaks away for a moment to grab a blue marker from the mug of pens right beside the paint tubes. They lock eyes for a second until Jongin looks away, not hiding the amused grin playing at his lips.

“I’ve been wondering about something, hyung.”

He pops the cap open and sweeps it in measured strokes. Kyungsoo straightens his back again and lifts his eyebrows when Jongin clears his throat.

“Why does it feel like I’ve known you for so long? I’ve only just met you, but everytime I look at you, I feel like I should protect you, and keep you here so you won’t go away..”

He fixes the cap back on the marker and puts it back in place with the others. The hollow sound they make when they hit the ceramic crackles like fire—burgundy, but lighter, clear in Kyungsoo’s ears.

“It’s such a strong feeling.” Jongin sighs. He looks frustrated, a bit annoyed. “Like I _know_ you’re special to me, but it’s weird because I don’t know anything about you. I’ve never seen you before, and we’ve never talked until the graduation exhibit day. It doesn’t make sense—” 

Used palettes, stiff brushes, and metal tools rattle when Jongin bumps backward on the table. He lifts himself off his stool to walk to the balcony. Kyungsoo watches him run his hand through his blonde hair with concern. He wonders if he should comfort him, or say something. But he stays put, because he knows exactly how it feels. It’s strange, definitely. But the colors never lie. 

Drops of gold fall from Jongin’s fingertips. They stain the wooden floor and linger there. He lifts his sketchbook to his face and lets his gaze drift back to Kyungsoo.

“I feel.. like I’ve forgotten something very important. I can’t place it, but I think I’ve forgotten _you_ ,” he rasps. 

His feet find their way before Kyungsoo, and in the moment he holds the sketchbook between them, Kyungsoo watches the primrose orbs, shaped like petals, drift to him, like tiny magnets.

“I never thought I could make something like this..” Jongin breathes. He flips it to the other side, and Kyungsoo smiles when the light hits the page perfectly.

A gentle breeze drifts in and caresses the wind chimes in the color of dew.

 

 

 

 The next time they meet, Kyungsoo meets Jongin after work and takes him to the places with the memories only he remembers.

“That corner over there, can you see it?” He asks, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. His vision’s a bit hazy; the colors are popping too brightly in this heat. Jongin cranes his neck to the direction of an abandoned bookstore and nods slowly. “That was a coffee shop—I mean, I guess it’s _going to be_ a coffee shop, since it hasn’t happened for you yet,” Kyungsoo explains, touching Jongin’s back to guide him when they cross the street.

They stand in front of the dirty glass windows and stare at themselves reflected, the rest of the world passing by.

“This is where you took photos of me,” Kyungsoo says. He closes his eyes and makes out Jongin’s blinding grin, the two clicks from his camera every time Kyungsoo changed expression. They walk to the direction of Jongin’s studio, and Kyungsoo points out the places he was made to pose at.

 _Lying down, smiling_ , on the lemon-colored seats of a waiting area. _Leaning on Jongin’s balcony_ , eyes heavy with the heat. And a dozen other places that the Jongin of now has never thought of ever painting—like the bridge towering over a creek, the narrow alleyway beside a bakery. Kyungsoo tells, and Jongin asks. All the while, the colors are blue— _blue, blue, blue_.

“How does it feel to see so many colors?” Jongin prods one day. After gaining inspiration from Kyungsoo, they’re currently at the local park, with Kyungsoo on a bench, sitting—legs spread and arms crossed. Jongin has his easel set slightly to his left and his palette loose on his thumb.

“I guess…” Kyungsoo mumbles, struggling for the next words to say. He tugs on his collar to let his skin breathe slightly. Silver touches his collarbone. “It’s annoying, sometimes. Like—I don’t ever get a break from seeing them. They’re always there, even when I close my eyes.”

He looks beyond Jongin and watches a group of kids playing tag by the grassy area. “It’s frustrating sometimes when I can’t find the right words to describe some of the colors I see. Not all people can perceive them. A colorful world isn’t as pretty as it sounds—but it definitely makes things all the more beautiful..”

Jongin stills in his movement and peeks at Kyungsoo, who has a contented grin fit on his face. “The colors.. They’re not just in what I see. They’re with me in everything I do. I can feel them, I can smell and taste them. Sometimes, I think in them, too.”

Kyungsoo looks up and Jongin snaps his face back to the canvas before he notices.

“You must think that’s funny, don’t you? It’s odd to me, too,” he laughs, shaking his head and patting off the lime that lands on his chest.

“But, that way—I think I see beauty in the things people normally can’t. To experience colors.. Maybe it’s to realize that one thing isn’t just as it is. Like, flowers, for example. They’re pleasing to the eyes, but once you smell them and taste how orange they are, touch them and relish the bright pink.. It’s different.”

Jongin nods, hiding his amused smirk. “Feeling colors,” he repeats. “Would that explain this.. _thing_ we have, then?” His brush scratches the canvas. Kyungsoo drops his head to ponder.

“Maybe,” he answers. “I asked you this before, but you felt them too, right? The first time we met..”

Jongin recalls the flashing hues, the way he jolted out of Kyungsoo’s grasp at the exhibit.

“The colors.. they’ve never lied to me,” Kyungsoo says.

An elderly dog walker passes by them and they bow in greeting, smiling sweetly at the plump beagle that pants after him. “I wanted to doubt them, too, when I first met you. But.. you didn’t seem like a bad guy, and you really weren’t.”

Jongin doesn’t hide his snicker this time. He retreats behind the canvas to hide his embarrassment. Kyungsoo leans forward to see him more clearly. Jongin wipes his brush clean on the blank surface of his palette. It’s such a simple action, an everyday thing. But Kyungsoo’s constantly kept on the edge, wondering if this happiness could disappear as abruptly as it came—if the colors could swarm and cloud everything grey and dull like how they did then.

 _The colors_ , he wants to add, _make the pain even more unbearable, too_.

The words are there, left hanging in the air, held by the thin threads of Kyungsoo’s conscience.

The pain is so unbearable that it erases all the other hues until it’s only sadness, loneliness, yearning. It consumes you, follows you, even when you’re in a place with absolutely no prior trace of it—even when you’re in a past you can’t remember.

They pack up when Jongin’s halfway finished. They fall into stride down the path that leads to the main road. Another ten minutes and they’re back at the studio.

Kyungsoo absolutely hates it when they have to part.

“Can I hold your hand?” He asks, once he’s out of things to say. Jongin looks down at him from the topmost step with wide eyes. “Okay,” he replies, offering his palm hesitantly.  Kyungsoo takes it into his grasp and squeezes firmly. 

“What color is it?”

“It’s gold,” Kyungsoo answers. “You’ve always been gold.”

A few days pass, and Kyungsoo finds himself at the same doorstep, gaping at Jongin’s new hair color.

“How do you like it? Handsome, right?” Jongin jokes, pulling Kyungsoo inside. There’s a spark. But no one talks about it. There’s a rough draft of Kyungsoo by a window sill on a canvas in the middle. Smudges of cornflower blue are already scattered around it. 

Jongin grips the wood sticking out from the behind the easel. His new, auburn hair really suits him.

“I had it dyed because I wanted to look more professional.”

He lifts his thumb to bite. Adorable. Kyungsoo melts a little. 

“Also, I want to ask for your opinion..” Jongin looks a little nervous when he retrieves a flyer from his back pocket. He unfolds and flattens it out before showing Kyungsoo. It’s for an art exhibit. Kyungsoo’s mouth falls open when he spots a few big companies as sponsors.

“I was thinking of joining this exhibit, and I was wondering if.. I could use your portrait for it.”

Jongin clears his throat and puts his hands behind him. Kyungsoo likes this. Jongin is hardly ever unsure of himself. Always so confident and passionate. When he’s like this, he glows a little pink. A pretty hue for the whole world to see.

“This exhibit.. It could be _it_ for me, hyung,” Jongin says. He sounds thoughtful, looking down at his feet. “It’s always been my dream. I want my art to reach a lot of people. There are so many places, so many people that I know I can never be able to visit or talk to. But through art, I can. It doesn’t need language, it doesn’t need to travel far to connect with anyone. Just looking at something.. That’s already communicating, that’s already inspiring.”

He lifts his head to look out the balcony. Cirrus clouds sail above. “If my paintings can reach a lot of people and make them happy, as much as art does for me—then that’s the best feeling. That’s my dream.”

“Then chase after it, Jongin-ah!” Kyungsoo beams. “That was a wonderful thought! I really believe you can make it. With that talent of yours, no less!”

But Jongin shakes his head, sinking into himself. “I have doubts about it, though,” he breathes, pulling his shirt out. “And I’m not sure if I _can_. I mean.. There’re always going to be people more talented, more creative than me. I know it’s impossible to be the best in anything.”

He jolts when Kyungsoo grabs his shoulders. Jongin looks down in shock. He doesn’t have time to react when Kyungsoo tiptoes and yanks his head down for their lips to meet.

They let the movements express what the words, what the colors can’t. Kyungsoo melts into him when Jongin pulls him closer—his large, rough hands gripping tight. There’s a sweet aroma surrounding them, warm salmon red, flickering whites, turquoise, emerald, purple, yellow—like sparklers, merging together like a kaleidoscope.

He pulls away first, and takes in Jongin’s flushed face, trying to catch his breath.

“You don’t have to be better than anyone,” Kyungsoo rushes. It leaves him a little louder than he’s expected. Jongin looks at him expectantly when he gets his phone out from his pocket. Kyungsoo slides it open and taps his gallery open, scrolling down to view a folder he’s sworn to never look at again. 

“My dream was to be a singer,” he says. Kyungsoo angles his phone to let Jongin see the rows and rows of photos and videos of him practicing, holding sheet music, smiling and laughing with Baekhyun.

“I would practice until the night, even after school and even during the weekends. It was everything to me, and I couldn’t see myself doing anything other than it.”

He taps on a video of him and Jongin moves closer. Kyungsoo looks younger and a bit chubbier, but his enthusiasm and passion is unmistakable. He’s singing along to an instrumental in the background, with eyes shut and a microphone held close to his chest.

Kyungsoo presses his lips together, feeling the regret thrum through his chest again. It hurts, and even more when Jongin’s right here beside him.

“Wow, hyung” He says, mesmerized. Jongin swipes to watch the next videos earnestly. “You’re so good. You have a beautiful voice.” He listens with full attention, compliments falling freely, violet and sweet from his mouth, and Kyungsoo sighs. Because he can find no faults. There is only admiration he has for Jongin. Looking at him like this, he feels like he can overcome whatever.

So he readies himself, bracing all the negativity when he continues, “But I can’t sing anymore.”

Jongin shoots him a look of disbelief. _You’re kidding right?_ Kyungsoo only shakes his head sadly.

“An accident took my voice away. I can still speak, but—any strenuous activity could damage my vocal cords permanently. That’s why I decided to quit.”

Jongin’s eyes falter. He takes a step backward. “Oh, hyung, I’m—I’m sorry, I—”

“What I’m trying to say is,” Kyungsoo interjects. He takes Jongin’s hands into his and finds that they’re smaller. So small and quivering, almost like a child’s. “ _My dream_ is something that I had to give up. It’s something that cannot come true anymore. And I’m fine with that, though I still haven’t accepted it yet,” Kyungsoo chuckles, squeezing lightly. Jongin squeezes back and he fights the urge to tear up. 

“ _Your dream_ , Jongin, is something you can still strive for. There’s no reason not to aim for it, chase after it. You’ve worked hard and proven yourself with your talent. Nothing is stopping you.”

Kyungsoo pauses to hold his breath to keep it from shaking. Jongin fits their fingers together and touches his forehead to Kyungsoo’s own.

“And you don’t have to be better than anyone. You’re already so much better than who you were yesterday, and all the people you were before today.” Kyungsoo lifts his head and breaks a hand away to touch Jongin’s cheek. His skin is warm like caramel, smooth like silk.

“You’re going to be better tomorrow, too. You’re never going to stop being the best version of yourself, and I’m looking forward to seeing you grow.”

He locks his eyes on Jongin’s lips and leans forward to press a light kiss. When he draws back, Jongin quickly steals another one, and Kyungsoo smiles.

“I believe in you, Jongin. You can do it.”

Jongin nods with an expression full of serenity. They kiss again, and Kyungsoo feels the colors lift from beneath his feet, decorating the walls and air. It’s festive and refreshing. Kyungsoo remembers the whirlpool from his mind and finds a calm lake before him, instead. He’s slowly lowering himself in, wading through and floating above all his worries.

“I’m going to make the best portrait of you, hyung,” Jongin declares. The intense fire in his gaze is back, scorching as ever. Kyungsoo giggles when Jongin nudges their noses together. He hits him lightly when Jongin tickles him.

“I already have something in mind,” he whispers, something glinting within his irises. “But I don’t want you to see until it’s finished. It’s going to be a surprise.”

Jongin brushes Kyungsoo’s bangs away and plants a tender kiss on his forehead. “A surprise?” he echoes, feeling sandalwood glow when Jongin rubs the spot with his thumb.

“Uh-huh,” Jongin grins. There’s a gleam in his eyes. Like the light off a bird’s wing. A plane after takeoff.

“And I already have the perfect title.”

 

 

 

A few weeks later and Jongin gets praised for his feature at a small gallery. 

The owner, Minseok, approaches him excitedly after the event to inform him of potential buyers and commissioners. Jongin covers his face when his cheeks flush bright peach. All the while, Kyungsoo watches on silently, proud from the other side of the room with a wine glass in his hand. Jongin runs—almost skips to him as soon as he finishes talking with a rich-looking couple, all smiles and radiating sunshine yellow. 

“You came, hyung!”

Kyungsoo nods, presenting him with a small bouquet of dahlias. “Congratulations,” he greets. Jongin looks at the bouquet, then back at him. He smacks his lips together before breaking into a shy grin.

“You got me _flowers_. All this time, I’ve been painting you with them. Now you giving me a bouquet just seems kind of wrong,” he chuckles, accepting it. “Thank you, Kyungsoo hyung.”

Kyungsoo feels his chest clench. _Kyungsoo_. His name has never sounded so perfect.

He feels his breath draw out of him softly, the tension in his shoulders vanishing when Jongin lifts the petals up to smell. His long eyelashes flutter shut, and a satisfied moan escapes him. In that moment, Kyungsoo decides that he’s never wanted to protect someone as much as him.

He pictures himself swimming towards a waterfall headed downwards. He’s afraid to approach it because it’s a long fall, and because of the uncertainty of ever resurfacing. He’s scared he might not swim fast enough, or of the possibility of being swept down with the current.

The waterfall is the truth, he realizes. The drop is accepting it.

“Jongin-ah,” Kyungsoo starts. He relaxes, and lets his body move with the stream.

Jongin tilts his head. Kyungsoo can see it in his eyes, the plunge up ahead. He takes a deep breath with all the things, all the colors, and emotions he should have said.

“I love you.”

In an instant, he feels cool, deep blue surround him. The shapes of people moving around, their movement in the distance seems slowed down. Like they’re underwater.

“I wish I told you then. But I kept hesitating. I wasn’t sure of how I felt, and I kept overthinking until I never told you back. That’s my only regret, Jongin. I wish I said I loved you back.”

Jongin moves close, and Kyungsoo fights off shutting his eyes to escape what’s going to happen next. He lets Jongin close the distance between them. His breath, warm his lips.

“Ever since you entered my life, things have never been better. I may have not known you long, but the colors that I see, the colors that you’ve made me feel, hyung. They’re telling me now to forgive you.”

Kyungsoo covers his mouth threatening to spill sobs into the open floor. Slowly, he feels like he’s floating up. There’s a light up above, where the next step leads.

“And there’s something else that I’ve realized, even without the colors,” Jongin adds, caressing Kyungsoo’s hair lightly. The dahlia petals graze his arm. They fold when they press against his skin. 

“The feeling back then, that I mentioned I forgot all about.. It’s love, isn’t it? I’ve loved you all along, Kyungsoo. In the past I can’t remember, the past you said you came from. I loved you then, and I love you now, too.”

Kyungsoo buries his face against Jongin’s clothed chest and breathes in deeply. He hears water splashing around him, his own voice gasping for air in wide, relieved yellow rays of sun. Jongin’s lips find their way through his ear.

“I love you, Kyungsoo. I always have.”

The waterfall is visible behind him now. Kyungsoo flips his wet hair away from his forehead and looks above, at where he came from, in awe. It was hard, but not impossible. He remembers feeling terrified, and wanting to turn back. But looking at where he is now, and this vast peacefulness that’s before him—Kyungsoo’s glad he took the leap. 

He grins to himself when he swims away.

 

 

 

Kyungsoo wakes up next to Jongin’s sleeping face.

He panics, but calms once he remembers the events that led up to this. They had returned home to Jongin’s studio, and kissed by the foyer, by the kitchen, and him sitting on Jongin’s work table. One thing led to another, and now he’s trapped in this warm cocoon of Jongin’s embrace.

Kyungsoo panics again when he sees how the clouds loom outside, but recalls that it’s a Sunday.

Jongin stirs awake, groaning and stretching. Kyungsoo inches away to give him space, but Jongin only pulls him closer, mumbling “You’re not going anywhere,” when he tightens his hold. He kicks the blankets off their bodies, and Kyungsoo stills when he feels something press on his thigh.

“Jongin-ah, wake up.” He tries shaking the painter awake, but to no avail. Kyungsoo gently tries to pry himself away from the embrace, but Jongin’s not budging. 

“Jongin-ah—” he whines, wriggling. “It's hot!” He complains, kicking the blanket off their bodies. Jongin loosens his hold and sneaks a peck at Kyungsoo’s temple. 

“Morning,” he grins. It grows slow on his lips, lazy like how he breathes in the crook of Kyungsoo’s neck and smiles a gentle lavender. Kyungsoo shudders, looking down at how their bare legs fit together. 

“These blankets,” Jongin groans. “I’d rather them off your body.” 

He lets his hand drift up Kyungsoo's thigh to count the light moles scattered there. “I want to see you, Kyungsoo. Everything.” 

He lets his thick lips travel down Kyungsoo’s neck. Jongin smirks to himself after he grazes his teeth on Kyungsoo’s sensitive skin, relishing the moan he earns, the hand that presses against chest. 

“I could stay like this all day, hyung. That would be perfect.” 

Jongin showers kisses, each touch tingling salmon, smelling like sweet baby’s breath. He adjusts his legs a bit, the shadow from his knee stretching on Kyungsoo’s smooth porcelain skin. 

“Do you have anything to do today?” he asks, though they both know the answer to that. Kyungsoo snorts, pulling the covers up to his chin, gazing up at how pretty the dust floats around inside this powder blue room. 

“Not really,” he says. Jongin mimics him and tucks his chin beneath the wrinkled fabric. 

“Then maybe you can help me out?”

Kyungsoo lifts an eyebrow and shifts his head slightly to Jongin’s direction. “With what, Mister Kim?” 

“Your portrait,” Jongin answers. He reaches for Kyungsoo’s hand inside the warm blanket and massages it gently. “I have this new concept I’m thinking of.. Remember the time I sketched you? That turned out really well, surprisingly. So I’ve been thinking of painting you.. with _flowers_.” 

He sits up abruptly, and Kyungsoo barely has the time to process the nagging dread at the pit of his stomach. 

“Think about it—” Jongin starts. He faces Kyungsoo and imagines a frame before him, closing one eye and forming L-shaped fingers. This gesture of his, Kyungsoo knows all too well. “Kyungsoo hyung and flowers--blue ones. They seem like they’d suit you the most!”

Kyungsoo opens his mouth to protest but Jongin turns his back and gets up from the bed before he can. He heads outside the bedroom and comes back a few seconds later holding a wooden box that looks freshly opened, the wrapping paper still crisp brown beneath it. 

Inside are tiny, blue and purple flowers, packed together and forming a circular shape. Jongin brushes his hand over them lightly, and Kyungsoo sees the faint blush pink that rises up and fades once Jongin retrieves his fingers. There are droplets of condensation that’s gathered on their small petals. Kyungsoo feels sad when he watches them slide off and soak the wrapping paper dark. 

“What do you think?” Jongin grins. 

“They’re nice.” Kyungsoo tries to smile, but finds that it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“I got these for you,” Jongin says. The bed sinks a little when he sits near the edge. Jongin pinches a few flowers off from the stem and tucks them into Kyungsoo’s hair. 

The smell is lilac. Jongin weaves his fingers until the back of his head. Deep and comforting. 

They move to the studio, where Kyungsoo leans on the white walls, straining to keep his eyes open while the sunlight hits his eyes--the colors popping, zinging in bright amaranth, smoldering in begonia. 

“I should take you out once this painting is finished,” Jongin suggests. He taps his paintbrush to rid it of excess water. “Have you ever been to Sokcho? My family and I used to live there by the sea.” 

Of course, Kyungsoo wants to say. How could he forget... 

“Our house was big, so my sister and I would run around and play all day. Our mom had us mow the grass sometimes and take our dogs out for walks by the shore,” Jongin chuckles, his shoulders shaking from the memory. 

“Sometimes when we didn’t have anything to do, the three of us would fold paper airplanes—you know, the ones you write wishes on, then fly off to the sea? We did that then.” He wipes at the sweat on his nose. Navy paint smears on Jongin’s warm skin. Kyungsoo stares at it, unmoving. 

“The wishes I wrote were kind of shallow, to be honest. A new action figure, a new school bag, new clothes…” He stops a bit, his eyes darting to find the next words to say. “But I was a kid. I didn’t even notice how weird it was that my mom would take twice as long to finish writing hers.” 

A sudden breeze blows off a few flowers off Kyungsoo’s hair. He exclaims when they fall to the floor, like a light shower. Jongin sets his brush down and tells him not to move. Kyungsoo keeps his back straight when he bends down, picking them up one by one, taking care not to crush the petals. 

Jongin’s expression is invisible, hidden behind his dark hair, when he continues, “I found out later that she never wrote any wishes—she only wrote letters to Appa. But he died a long time ago.” 

The small flowers look like a puddle in Jongin’s hand. Kyungsoo thinks if he stared long enough, he could see Jongin’s reflection in them. 

“I used to wonder what was inside those letters. She would always keep to herself while me and my sister were writing ours, so I never knew. And when we’d fly them off, she looked really sad.. Like she wanted to cry. I used to think about that.” 

Kyungsoo pulls back slightly when Jongin stands up, approaching him and placing the flowers back delicately. His eyes are lackluster. A bit hollow. “Then one day, she was gone. _Poof_ , just like that. She left everything and disappeared without warning. Not even a goodbye letter. It was so strange..” 

Kyungsoo’s lips tremble. “Jongin.. I..” 

“It’s okay,” Jongin dismisses. “I don’t feel bad about it anymore. It just stuck with me, I guess. The fact that she just went away without a trace.. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because her wish got granted.” 

Jongin drops his hands when he finishes reorganizing the flowers. He takes a moment to admire his work. He lifts his hands again to brush Kyungsoo’s hair away from his eyes. 

“Her wish, I think.. Was to see Appa again.” 

Jongin’s so close that Kyungsoo can feel his breath through the space between them. 

“I’ve thought about it so many times, but there’s no other explanation. Eomma isn’t gone. She’s just with Appa. They’re happy together. Why else would she leave us like that, right?” His voice cracks a bit, but nothing he can’t brush off with a shrug. Kyungsoo notices, though. He stares up at Jongin with concerned eyes. 

“Jongin-ah..” 

“So, let’s go to Sokcho, hyung.” He smiles. “I want to write wishes with you, because I’m sure they’ll definitely come true.” 

He leans in before he receives a reply, and Kyungsoo can only close his eyes when their lips softly press together. There’s love, but loneliness, as well. 

When Jongin pulls away, Kyungsoo sighs. 

“Okay,” he replies, and a few petals fall out of his hair again.

 

 

 

At night, Jongin walks him home. 

He swings their hands obnoxiously high for everyone to see, a giant grin plastered on his face. Kyungsoo’s face is burning, and he can’t help but hush at him when people steal glances. But Jongin’s unbothered, if anything, he only pulls Kyungsoo closer and tries to sneak kisses on his flushed cheeks. 

At the halfway point, it starts to trickle rain and by the time the bus stop comes to view, they’re seeking refuge—laughing at the cars that zoom past, the water splashing at their feet. 

Kyungsoo’s eyes adjust to the neon colors that blur in the distance. He can make out the intersection just before his apartment. He sulks a bit. All the time in the world isn’t enough to be with Jongin. 

Loud ringing interrupts his thoughts and Jongin excuses himself to take a phone call. 

Kyungsoo looks on, watching how his face turns from relaxed to serious, to blank then sudden disbelief. 

“Really? Oh, wow.. thank you so much. Thank you, Sir!! Yes, I will call you back as soon as I can. Thank you.” 

He keeps his head bowed low when he waits for the call to end. The sound of the rain hitting the shade above them resonates in celadon green. Jongin faces him, eyes wide open. 

“Hyung.. I got in,” he whispers, like he still can’t believe it. “I got in the preliminaries!” 

Kyungsoo feels the air push out of him when Jongin rushes to embrace him. He hugs back and catches the misty night lights beyond Jongin’s shoulder. In the distance, he feels something drawing near--a strong sense of déjà vu. 

“Jongin-ah, congratulations!” He grins. Jongin returns it, thanking him. When Kyungsoo sees how happy he looks, how fulfilled he is, he feels his heart drop. He’s so proud for him. It’s his dream and he’s worked so hard for it. 

Jongin takes the lead when the rain lets up. He’s barely keeping himself from skipping to the pedestrian walk. The lights are red. 

“The Under 30 Emerging Artist of the Year Award, hyung. Can you believe it? If I get nominated, I’ll be representing Korea.” He rambles on, fixated on Kyungsoo, hand loose on his wrist. “If I win, they might take me in and train me.. That’s five years of apprenticeship in Paris. Wouldn’t that be great?” 

“Five years.. of apprenticeship?” 

The lights blinks green and Kyungsoo’s feet trudge forward when Jongin yanks him. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I guess I’m getting too ahead of myself, but yeah.. There’s a possibility. I wish I could take you with me.. But that’s only if I win, anyway!” He laughs, tightening his hold. “I don’t want you far from me.”

Kyungsoo nods, but then a sudden pain hits his head like thunder. He freezes, groaning. His palms fly up to grasp at his head where the colors flash rapidly. 

Jongin’s wish at Sokcho—maybe it came true. 

He looks up and sees him panicking, yelling when his knees fall to the concrete. 

Kyungsoo’s wish—he remembers not ever telling. 

There’s a blaring, monotonous horn in magma mint. It’s deafening—shrill in Kyungsoo’s eardrums. 

He’s short of breath when he desperately grasps Jongin—his broad, tan magenta shoulders shaking, his muscular pink-green back, his veiny, frost black arms, anything—just to have him where he is, and where he’ll ever need to be. 

Jongin barely has the time to react when Kyungsoo pushes him—out of the way, with all the strength he has left. Their eyes meet, and for a faint moment he’s too bright to see. Kyungsoo wills himself to remember how Jongin crashes to safety, rolling off the sidewalk, and waits for the pain to hit. 

Please. 

The horn grows louder in slow motion. Everything around is flashing, turning terribly bright. So bright, that Kyungsoo closes his eyes—

 

 

 

—and colors are exploding. A loud, blaring siren is deafening in his ear. On his tongue, a searing cosmos pink. 

Kyungsoo lets out a loud groan when he claws at his scalp, squinting at his surroundings. He curses as the colors flash incessantly. So many colors. Painful in his head and in his chest.. And they’re vanishing.. 

He wipes the sweat that has started to slither down his face. Gasping, he tries to steady his breathing. 

His wish, he thinks. What was it again? 

He looks around and sees that he’s in his room and his phone is sounding off. Kyungsoo grabs blindly at his bedsheets and makes out dark rain clouds looming. He stretches an arm out and feels the absence of a thought he’s desperately tried to hold on to. It’s slipping away, and he is deathly, deathly afraid of forgetting. 

He’s in his room

“H-Hello?” he gasps out when he’s swiped to take the call. 

Immediately, Jongdae starts rambling fast and high-pitched. It’s too much, and Kyungsoo winces, gritting his teeth, forgetting to remember what he’s supposed to recall. Forgetting to remember. Remember… what? 

“He’s out with a portrait again—and of _that guy_ , even.” 

 _What guy?_ Kyungsoo asks, and it causes the pain in his head to throb more intensely. He manages to put on his glasses. He sees the clouds, and how they taunt him. Rain, they seem to whisper. It’s going to rain again. Just like the night you lost him. 

“Kim Jongin,” Jongdae says. And the first drop of rain hits the glass. Building up to a lazy amber. 

Kyungsoo spends the rest of the morning massaging his temples, swallowing pills and concocting his mother’s ginseng remedy--wondering why the colors are so vivid. Wondering why he feels so relieved, though he knows he’s lost something very important. Something dear that he can’t seem to place. 

In the afternoon, he’s staring at a portrait of himself. Surrounded by more questions as there are hydrangeas in his hair. He’s confused. But the colors tell him, convince him--that despite the dread, despite knowing how it’s going to end--this is how it’s supposed to be. 

Kyungsoo steps back, and in that moment, feels a soggy paper plane tear underneath his feet. 

His eyes burn when he makes out the writing visible from where he’s standing. It’s rushed and messy. Almost familiar. Kyungsoo blinks carefully, feeling his brows furrow. 

In between the bleeding lines, he thinks he recalls a deep voice somewhere, calling his name—smooth and warm, milky peach-white bed sheets, and a cotton blue canvas of soothing August skies.

Their fingertips are grazing slightly, and his skin is richer, deeper than Kyungsoo’s. It’s smooth, and fades darker when it reaches the crease of his elbow. He traces the lines of Kyungsoo’s palms with delicate touches.. He can’t make out a face, but Kyungsoo remembers feeling very, very happy—reds and lilacs merging when they kiss—‘ _Two days before tomorrow. That’s when I started loving you._ ’ 

Eagles shaped like paper planes flying from their fingertips, soaring high into the pretty pastel blue canvas, trailing jets of make-believe smoke. Their smiles gleam, and Kyungsoo is so, so happy, and at the same time, so intensely miserable. 

His wish—then, Kyungsoo remembers.. Was for _his_ dream to come true. His dream, Kyungsoo had thought, was more important above everything else. Even more than the distance, even more than the colors. Kyungsoo’s wish was for _his_ dream to come true, and nothing else..

  
  
  


“Kyungsoo hyung?” Someone calls out. 

Something stirs in his chest, but it’s not enough to sting.


End file.
